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THE    IRISH    MONTHLY. 


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THE 


IRISH  MONTHLY 


%  Htega^tite  of  (Setters!  %ittxntuxt 


FOURTEENTH  YEARLY  VOLUME 
1886 


LUBLIN 
M.   H.   GILL   A   SON,    O'CONNELL    STREET 

LONDON:  BURNS  *  OATE8;  SIMPKIN,  MAB8HAU.  ft  CO. 


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M.    H.   GILL  AND  SON,    PRINTERS,   DUBLIN. 


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CONTENTS. 


Stories. 

The  Chaplain  of  St  Denis.    By  the  late  C.  W.  Russell,  D.D. 

Mr.  Baker's  Domestic  System 

The  Five  Cobblers  of  Brescia.    By  Rosa  Mulholland 

Bet's  Matchmaking.    By  the  Same 

Maureen  Lacy.    By  the  Same 

An  Arcachon  Comedy.    By  Mrs.  Frank  Fentrill . 

An  Arcachon  Tragedy.    By  the  Same  . 

The  Fit  of  Ailrie's  Shoe.    By  Rosa  Mulholland     . 

Molly  the  Tramp.    By  the  Same 

The  Haunted  Organist  of  Hurly  Burly.    By  the  Same 

Marigold.    By  the  Same 

The  Ghost  at  the  Rath.    By  the  Same  . 

Little  Jack  and  the  Christmas  Pudding.    By  M.  E.  Francis 

Sketches  of  Places  and  Persons. 

A  Curious  Relic  of  Thomas  Francis  Meagher 

The  Last  of  the  Shanachies.    By  Mrs.  Morgan  John  O*0onnell 

A  Family  of  Famous  Celtic  Scholars.     By  the  Most  Rev.  Dr.  Healey 

A  Convert'!  Reminiscence.    By  F.  B.  A. 

A  Web  of  Irish  Biographies    • 

John  Mitchel's  Daughter.    By  the  Editor 

An  Idyll  of  the  City.    By  T.  F.W. 

Nutshell  Biograms   .....  164, 

Another  Irish  Nun  in  Exile    • 

Richard  Robert  Madden.    By  M.  R.     . 

Augustus  Law,  S.J.    Notes  in  Remembrance.    By  the  Editor        185, 

Irish-American  Poets.    By  Daniel  Connolly 

Gerhard  Sehneemann,  S.  J.    By  the  Rev.  Peter  Finlay,  S.  J. 

The  Ursulines  of  Tenos.    By  Hannah  Lynch 

Frederick  Lucas.    By  the  Rev.  Peter  Finlay,  S  J. 

November  in  a  Greek  Island.    By  Hannah  Lynch 

Abbe*  MaoCarron.    By  the  Rev.  Matthew  Russell,  S.  J. 

The  Last  Martyr  of  the  Confessional.    By  Frank  Hugh  O'Donnell 

At  Nasareth  House ..... 

Leibnite.    By  the  late  C.  W.  Russell,  D.  D. 

The  Round  Tower  of  Blbannon.    By  Richard  J.  Kelly     . 

Sir  Samuel  Ferguson.     By  the  Editor  . 

Last  Relics  of  Augustus  Law,  S.  J.    By  the  Editor 

Leaves  from  the  Annals  of  Dublin.    By  W.  F.  Dennehy     . 

Carlyle'e  Irish  Tours.    By  T.  Griffin  ODonoghue 

The  Hospital  of  Our  Mother  of  Mercy. 


201, 
277, 


489, 


PAGB 
.       17 

.  70 
.  117 
.    175 

233,  299 
.  265 
.  316 
.  345 
.  401 
.    457 

513,  573 
.  629 
.    655 


.  11 
.  27 
.  59 
.  82 
.  108 
.  134 
.  150 

398,  482 
.  164 
.  171 

319,430 
.  194 
.  247 
.  269 
.  368 
.  377 

445,  648 
.  441 
.  470 

537,595 
.  601 
.  529 
.  349 
.  565 
.  613 
.  678 


3' 


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▼1 


Contents. 


Essays  and  Reviews. 

Miss  Miilholland's  Poems 

Reflection.    By  the  Ber.  William  Sutton,  S.J.     . 

Sir  Stephen  de  V ere*e  Translations 

Fitipatrick's  «  Father  Burke  w 

Everyday  Thoughts.    By  Mrs.  Fran*  Pentrill— 

No.  X    Angels  Unawares 

No.  XI.  Old  Age     . 
Keeping  a  Diary.    By  the  Ber.  William  Sutton,  S.  J. 
Harmless  Novell.    By  the  Present  Writer 
An  Irish  Poet's  American  Critics 
June  in  the  Famine  year.    By  John  Hitohel 
Something  about  Sonnets.    By  the  Editor 
Mrs.  Piatt's  Poems.    By  Katharine  Tynan 
The  Work  of  the  Poor  Churches.    By  the  Present  Writer 
Goings  Forth  and  Home-comings.    By  M.  B." 
In  Everlasting  Remembrance.    By  the  Same  ' 


PAOS 


1 
23 
33 

48 

44 

6o8 
100 
206 
274 
289 
335 
385 
420 
476 
590 


Notices  of  New  Books. 

The  Poet  in  May.— Odile.— Monsabreon  the  Rosary.— Queen  by  Bight  Divine.— 
Life  of  St  Philip  Benisi.— The  Chair  of  Peter — Theodore  Wibaux,  SX— 
Authority  and  Conscience.— Christmas  ttevels  and  the  Wanderers.— Little 
Dick's  Christmas  Carol.— Louis  et  Augusts  Buellan,  SJ.— The  Mad  Peni- 
tent of  Todi.-Jubilee  Hymn  of  Leo  XIIL— The  Last  Carol.— GiUow's 
Dictionary  of  English  Catholics.— The  Birthday  Book  of  Our  Dead.— 
Bason's  Almanac  for  Ireland,  Ac.,  .  .  .51 

Lord  0*Hagan's  Speeches.— Waifs  of  a  Christmas  Morning.— The  Treasure  of 
the  Abbey.— True  Wayside  Tales.— English  Catholic  Directory.— The 
Scholastic  Annual — Culwiok's  Te  Deum — Bacques  on  the  Divine  Office.— 
Principles  of  Government  of  St  Ignatius.  Miss  Mulbolland's  Edition  of 
"  Robinson  Crusoe."— Miscellaneous  Pamphlets,  Ac.,     .  .  .  113 

Sonnets  of  this  Century.— English  Nonjurors  of  1715.— Studies  of  Family  Life. 
—Life  of  St.  NorberU— Odile.— The  Birthday  of  Our  Dead.— Joseph 
Marchand,  Martyr.— Catholic  Soldier's  Guide.— American  CatholioQuarterly, 
— Socialist,  Protestant,  Catholic — Cleanliness. — Joy  and  Laughter,  Ac,      .  160 

Flora  the  Roman  Martyr.— The  Keys  of  the  Kingdom.- Vapid  Vapourings.— 
American  Criticism  on  Miss  Mulholland's  Puems.— The  Lepers  of  Molokai, 
—The  Server's  Missal.— Life  of  St.  Patrick.— Little  Month  of  St  Joseph.— 
Rev.  John  Behan  on  Dr.  Maguire's  Pamphlet.— Ellis's  Education  Guide.— 
The  O'Connell  Press  Popular  Library,  Ac.,     .  .  .  .  216 

Edward  VI.  Supreme  Head.— The  Synods  in  English.— Leaves  from  St.  Augus- 
tine—Birthday Book  of  Our  Dead.— The  Three  Sorrows  of  Story-Telling. 
— Discourses  on  the  Divinity  of  Jesus  Christ— Miscellaneous  Pamphlets. — 
Liverpool  Irish  Literary  Institute,  Ac, .  285 

Santi  on  Canon  Law.— Pax  Vobis.— The  End  of  Man.— Verses  on  Doctrinal  and 
Religious  Subjects.— The  Valiant  Woman.— The  Castle  of  Ooetquen.— 
Christian  Symbols.-  The  Birthday  Book  of  Our  Dead.— Preparation  for 
Death. — Margaret  ditherow. — Essays  on  Ireland. — Parvum  Missale. — S. 
Anselmi  Mariale.— Dupanloup  on  Education.— The  O'Connell  Press  Popular 
Library.— Catholic  Truth  Society.— Catholic  School  Hymnbook.— Tauler's 
Following  of  Christ— The  Sodality  Manual.— Life  of  Henrietta  Kerr,       .  390 


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Contents. 


Tttr 


-     .  PAOK 

Amherst's  History  of  Catholio  Emancipatioito-- Short  Papers*forthc  People.—    - 
The  Cardinal  Archbishop  of  Westndnster.— AtUs  das  Mission©  Oatholiques,     . 
—The  Virgin  Mother  of  God. —Sketches  of  the  Royal  Irish  Constabulary. 
-JThe  Flight  of  the  Harls.— Bdmund  Burke  on  Irish  Afisirs.--At  Antioclr 
A«ain.— Canon  Crofty  on  Continuity  of  the  Church.— Pomfret  Oakes^r  * 
Three  Pamphlets— Hundred  Best  Irish  Books.— Bodesinstieal  Bnglkh—A  \. 
National  Song.— Merry  and  Wise,  •  •  ,. 

Mr.  J.  J.  Piatt's  Poems.— Miss  Jordan's  Echoes  from  the  .Pines.«-Golden  Sano> 
Gerald  Griffin's  Poems.— Catechism  in  Examples.— The  Clothes  of  Religion. 
-Comorford's  Kildare  and  Leighlin.— King,  Prophet,  and  Priest.— Moore's 
Melodies.— Chronicles  of  Castle  Cloy  ne.— The  Boston  Stylus.— The  Flower 
of  Holywett,      .  .  •  ...  462 

Handbook  of  Christian  Symbols.— Hunoltfs  Sermons.— American  Catholic 
Quarterly.— Catholio  Monthly  Magaiine.— Centenary  ^Edition  of  St. 
Alphonsus—Oompanion  to  the  Catechism.— The  Children's  Mass—History 
of  the  Society  of  Jesus.— Six  Seasons  on  our  Prairies.— Judges  of  the  Faith 
and  Godless  Schools.— CConneil  Press  Popular  Library.— Monrignor  Grad- 
weU's  St.  Patrick.— Glltbauer's  Cornelius  Nepos.— Amon*  the  Fairies, 

The  tittle  Bosary  of  the  Sacred  Heart— Bishop  Ullathorne's  Curistian  Patience. 
—St  Columba  and  Other  Poems.— OathoKc  Truth  Society's  Publications.— 
Lalla  Rookh.— The  League  of  the  North  and  South.— Toser's  Catholic 
Hymns.— Today's  Gem  for  the  Casket  of  Mary.— '• Catholic  World  "and 
"Merry  England,  *  ....-• 

Father  Gerard's  Stonyhurst  Latin  Grammar.— The  Late  Miss  Hollingford.— 
Marcella  Grace.— Historical  Notes  on  Longford.— Budimenta  Linguae 
Hebraicae.— The  School  of  Dirine  Love.— Life  of  St.  Oare.— Thoughts  from 
St.  Francis.— The  Bible  and  Belief .— Eucharistic  Hours.— The  Month  of 
the  Souls  in  Purgatory,     ...••• 

Most  Rer.  Dr.  Walsh's  Addresses.— Centenary  Edition  of  St  Alphonsus.— 
Augustus  Law,  S.J. — Notes  in  Remembrance.— During  the  Persecution. — 
Canon  Monahan's  Ardagh  and  Clonmacnoise,— Purgatory,  Dogmatioand 
Scholastic— Souls  Departed.— Hymn  to  the  Eternal,  &c.— Simple  Readings 
on  the  Parables.— Catholio  Home  Almanac.— Donahoo's  Magasine.— 
St  Augustine.— The  Saturday  Review  on  "  Marcella  Grace."— Gems  of  Ca- 
tholic Thought— Kickham's  Last  NoyoL— Catholio  Truth  Society.-Life  of 
Muard,&c — Miscellaneous  .  . 


608 


661 


670 


Poems  and  Miscellaneous  Papers. 

In  the  Desert    ByBrelynPyne 

To  Cardinal  Newman.    By  Lewis  Diummond,  S.J. 

My  Song  and  L  *  By  R.  M.  . 

The  Lord's  Messenger.    By  Erelyn  Pyne 

To  St.  Rose  of  Lima.     By  Mary  0.  Crowley 

The  O'Connell  Papers.    Parts  XXI.,  XXII.,  XXm. 

A  Few  Repartees.    ByT.  B.B. 

Winged  Words       .... 

The  King.    By  Cassie  CHara 

0  Thou  who  hast  made  me,  hare  mercy  on  me.    By  S.  M.  S. 

The  Bishop  of  Down.     By  A.  Harkin,  M  D. 

Estrada's  Spouse.    By  Eleanor  E.  Donnelly 

Sonnet  by  Arrers.    Translated  by  W.  H.  E. 

A  Curious  Little  Relic  of  '48  . 

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.  16 

.  26 

.  69 

.  81 

.  91 
92,166,229 

.  105 
111,  312 

.  132 

.  149 

.  183 

.  192 

.  215 

.  220 


Googk 


VU1 


Content*. 


Pigeonhole  Paragraph!  .              9    224 

To  Cardinal  Newman.    By  T.  H.  Wright  .              .232 

Pictures  from  the  Rotary    By  Katharine  Tynan                .  .245 

The  Cottage  Gate.    By  Ethel  Tene      .  .256 

The  Leaping  Procession  at  Eohternach.    By  G.  O'C.  B.  .267 
The  Prisoned  Song.    By  Caseie  O'Hara              ....  w260 

Unpublished  Poems  of  the  "  Certain  Professor  "  .               .  .               .261 

Filiesy's  Proridenoe  of  God.    By  W,  H.  E.  .268 

To  a  Musician.    By  Anna  X-  Johnston               .  .284 

Lore's  AdTent.    By  Evelyn  Pyne         .               .  .    288 

The  Touch  of  a  Mother's  Hand.    By  Richard  B.  White     .  .297 

At  Midnight    A  Sonnet  in  Dialogue.     By  Evelyn  Pyne    .  .411 

An  Old  Man's  Reverie.    By  Attie  O'Brien          '.               .  .    314 
Snow  in  May.    By  Eugene  Daris          .....    329 

The  Roman  Poet's  Prayer.    By  Sir  Stephen  de  Vere,  Bart  •    367 

Remembrance.    By  W.  B.  Teats                           .               .  .376 

Filicaja's  Crowning  with  Thorns.    By  O.             .  .384 

The  Queen's  Favourite.    By  C.  O'C.  B.               .              .  .               .390 

Martinui  Hugo  Hamill,  Thomae  Longo  $uo         ....    392 

A  Maiden.    By  E.  E.  T.                       .              .               .  .               .    419 

Martyr  Thirst.    By  Evelyn  Pyne                         .               .  .               .429 

L'Oeuvre  des  Tabernacles.       .              .  .440 

Vittoria  Colonna's  Sonnet  to  Our  Lady.    By  W.  H.  E.       .  .444 

The  Heart  of  a  Mother.    By  Katharine  Tynan    .  .450 

Kindness.    ByEUy.              .                             .  .469 

Consummates  in  BrevL    By  H.  L.  M.                 .  .    475 

Nursery  Rhymes  in  Latin.    No.  1— Three  Blind  Mice.    By  0.  .    481 

No.  2— Sing  a  Song  of  Sixpence  .               .    668 

Footprints.    By  James  J.  Piatt             .  .488 
Watch  and  Pray.    By  Anna  I.  Johnston             ....    500 

Meditation  of  the  Old  Fisherman.    By  W.  B.  Teats  .528 

My  Wife's  Birthday.    By  M.  B.         .  .530 

Two  Little  Angels.    By  M.  R.                             .  .537 
In  Honorem  Eduardi  Confessoris           .....    560 

Christus  Oonsolator.    By  Sister  Mary  Agnes        ....    564 

A  Poet's  Love.    By  Evelyn  Pyne  .589 

All  Saint*    By  Sister  Mt  ry  Agnes  .594 

Novembribus  Horis.    By  J.  G.              .  .607 

True  to  the  Bead.    Bj  Helena  Callanan               .  .               .611 

Eros.    ByE.  E.  T.                .               .               .               .  .               .625 

Songs  from  Shakspeare  in  Latin.    No.  I— Full  fathom  Jivt  thy  father  lies       .    628 

The  Stolen  OhUd.    By  W.  B.  Teats     .              .               .  .              .646 

Rebecca  at  the  Well.    By  the  Rev.  W.  H.  Kent,  O.S.C.      .  .               .653 

The  Soul's  Offering.    By  M.  W.  Brew  .               .               .  .               .679 

Eden.    ByE.E.  T.               .               .  .               .677 

Bitterness.    By  Evelyn  Pyne.  .               .677 


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MISS  MTTLHOLIAND'S  POEMS.* 

THIS  book  and  this  name  are  thus  made  the  opening  words  of 
our  fourteenth  yearly  volume  in  order  that  the  readers  of 
this  Magazine  may  have  no  excuse  for  ignoring  a  noteworthy  event 
in  our  Irish  literature.  Miss  Mulholland's  name  indeed  has 
occupied  a  similar  position  before  in  more  than  one  of  our  New 
Tear  Numbers,  linked  with  the  opening  chapters  in  the  history  of 
one  or  other  of  her  delightful,  pure-minded  Irish  heroines,  Nell  or 
Fanchea  or  Maroella — the  latest  of  whom  seems  to  have  won  more 
hearts  than  even  any  of  her  predecessors.  No  person  with  the 
faintest  glimmering  of  insight  into  the  subtle  mechanism  of  literary 
composition  in  its  higher  forms  could  study  the  prose  writings  of 
the  author  of  "The  Wicked  Woods  of  Tobereevil,"  of  "Elder- 
gowan  "  and  many  other  dainty  fictions,  without  being  sure  that 
the  writer  of  such  prose  was  a  poet  also,  not  merely  by  nature  but 
by  art ;  and  many  had  learned  to  follow  her  initials  through  the 
pages  of  this  and  of  certain  London  magazines,  though  the  famous 
periodical  most  frequently  favoured  by  her  muse  is  in  the  habit  of 
suppressing  even  the  initials  of  its  contributors.  The  present 
work  contains  nearly  all  of  these  scattered  lyrics ;  and,  along 
with  them,  many  that  are  now  printed  for  the  first  time  combine 
to  form  a  volume  of  the  truest  and  holiest  poetry  that  has  been 
heard  on  earth  since  Adelaide  Procter  went  to  heaven. 

The  only  justification  for  the  too  modest  title  of  "  Vagrant 
Verses  "  which  gleams  from  the  cover  of  this  pretty  volume  lies 
in  the  fact  that  this  most  graceful  muse  wanders  from  subject  to 
subject  according  to  her  fancy,  and  pursues  no  heroic  or  dramatic 
theme  with  that  exhaustive  treatment  which  exhausts  everyone 
except  the  poet.  The  poems  in  this  collection  are  short,  written 
not  to  order  but  under  the  manifest  impulse  of  inspiration,  for  the 
expression  only  of  the  deeper  thoughts  and  more  vivid  feelings  of 
the  souL  Except  the  fine  lyrical  and  dramatic  ballad,  "  The 
Children  of  Lir,"  which  occupies  eight  pages,  and  the  first  five 
pages  given  to  "  Emmet's  Love/'  none  of  the  rest  of  the  seventy 
poems  go  much  beyond  a  page  or  two,  while  they  range  through 
every  mood,  sad  or  mirthful,  and  through  every  form  of  metre. 

*  "  Vagrant  Verses."    By  Rosa  Mulholland.  London:  Kegan  Paul,  Trench, 
and  Co. 

Vol.  xit.  No.  151.    January,  1886.  2 

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2  Muss  MulhoUantfs  Poems. 

We  have  named  the  opening  poem,  which  is  an  exquisitely 
pathetic  soliloquy  of  Sarah  Curran,  a  year  after  the  death  of  her 
betrothed,  young  Robert  Emmet — a  nobler  tribute  to  the  memory 
of  our  great  orator's  daughter  than  either  Moore's  verse  or 
Washington  Irving  s  prose.  But  the  metrical  interlacing  of  the 
stanzas,  and  the  elevation  and  refinement  of  the  poetic  diction, 
require  a  thoughtful  perusal  to  bring  out  the  perfections  of  this 
poem  which  therefore  lends  itself  less  readily  to  quotation.  We 
shall  rather  begin  by  giving  one  shorter  poem  in  full,  taken  almost 
at  random.  Let  it  be  "  Wilfulness  and  Patience,"  as  it  teaches  a 
lesson  ^which  it  would  be  well  for  many  to  take  to  heart  and  to 
learn  by  heart : — 

I  said  I  am  going  into  the  garden, 

Into  the  flush  of  the  sweetness  of  life  ; 
I  can  stay  in  the  wilderness  no  longer, 

Where  sorrow  and  sickness  and  pain  are  so  rife ; 

So  I  shod  my  feet  in  their  golden  sandals, 
And  looped  my  gown  with  a  ribbon  of  blue, 

And  into  the  garden  went  I  singing, 
The  birds  in  the  boughs  fell  a-singing  too. 

Just  at  the  wicket  I  met  with  Patience, 

Grave  was  her  face,  and  pure,  and  kind, 
But  oh,  I  loved  not  her  ashen  mantle, 

Such  sober  looks  were  not  to  my  mind. 

Said  Patience,  "  Go  not  into  the  garden, 

But  come  with  me  by  the  difficult  ways, 
Over  the  wastes  and  the  wilderness  mountains, 

To  the  higher  levels  of  love  and  praise  !  " 

Gaily  I  laughed  as  I  opened  the  wicket, 

And  Patience,  pitying,  flitted  away; 
The  garden  glory  was  full  of  the  morning— 

The  morning  changed  to  the  glamour  of  day. 

0  sweet  were  the  winds  among  my  tresses, 
And  sweet  the  flowers  that  bent  at  my  knees, 

Ripe  were  the  fruits  that  fell  at  my  wishing, 
But  sated  soon  was  my  soul  with  these. 

And  would  I  were  hand  in  hand  with  Patience, 

Tracking  her  feet  on  the  difficult  ways, 
Over  the  wastes  and  the  wilderness  mountains, 

To  the  higher  levels  of  love  and  praise 


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Miss  MulhollaruTs  Poems.  3 

The  salutary  lesson  that  the  singer  wants  to  impress  on  the 
young  heart  is  here  taught  plainly  and  directly  even  by  the  very 
name  of  the  piece.  But  here  is  another  very  delicious  melody,  of 
which  the  name  and  the  purport  are  somewhat  more  mysterious. 
It  is  ^called  "  Perdita." 

I  dipped  my  hand  in  the  sea. 
Wantonly — 
The  sun  shone  red  o'er  castle  and  cave  j 
Dreaming,  I  rocked  on  the  sleepy  wave  5— 
I  drew  a  pearl  from  the  sea, 
Wonderingly. 

There  in  my  hand  it  lay  j 
Who  could  say 
How  from  the  depths  of  the  ocean  calm 
It  rose,  and  slid  itself  into  my  palm  P 
I  smiled  at  finding  there 
Pearl  so  fair* 

I  kissed  the  beautiful  thing. 
Marvelling. 
Poor  till  now,  I  had  grown  to  be 
The  wealthiest  maiden  on  land  or  sea, 
A  priceless  gem  was  mine, 
Pure,  divine  1 

I  hid  the  pearl  in  my  breast, 
Fearful  lest 
The  wind  should  steal,  or  the  wave  repent 
Largess  made  in  mere  merriment, 
And  snatch  it  back  again 
Into  the  main. 

But  careless  grown,  ah  me ! 
Wantonly 
I  held  between  two  fingers  fine 
My  gem  above  the  sparkling  brine, 
Only  to  see  it  gleam 

Across  the  stream. 

I  felt  the  treasure  slide 
Under  the  tide ; 
I  saw  its  mild  and  delicate  ray 
Glittering  upward,  fade  away. 
Ah  !  then  my  tears  did  flow, 
Long  ago  1 


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4  Miss  Mulho Hand's  Poetns. 

I  weep,  and  weep,  and  weep, 
Into  the  deep ; 
Sad  am  I  that  I  could  not  hold 
A  treasure  richer  than  virgin  gold, 
That  Fate  so  sweetly  gave 
Out  of  the  wave. 

I  dip  my  hand  in  the  sea. 
Longingly; 
But  never  more  will  that  jewel  white 
Shed  on  my  soul  its  tender  light ; 
My  pearl  lies  buried  deep 

Where  mermaids  sleep. 

Some  readers  of  this  paper  are  no  doubt  for  the  first  time 
making  acquaintance  with  Miss  Mulholland  under  this  character 
in  which  others  have  known  her  long ;  and  even  these  newest 
friends  know  enough  of  her  already  to  pronounce  upon  some  of 
her  characteristics.  She  is  not  uninfluenced  by  the  spell  of  modern 
culture  which  has  invested  the  poetic  diction  of  recent  years  with 
an  exquisite  expressiveness  and  delicate  beauty.  But,  while  her 
style  is  the  very  antithesis  of  the  tawdry  or  the  commonplace,  she 
has  no  mannerisms  or  affectations ;  she  belongs  to  no  school ;  she 
does  not  deem  it  the  poet's  duty  to  cultivate  an  artificial,  rechercM, 
dilettante  dialect  unknown  to  Shakspeare  and  Wordsworth—  if  we 
may  use  a  string  of  epithets  which  can  only  be  excused  for  their 
outlandishness  on  the  plea  that  they  describe  something  very  out- 
landish. Her  meaning  is  as  lucid  as  her  thoughts  are  high  and 
pure.  If,  after  reading  one  of  her  poems  carefully,  we  sometimes 
have  to  ask  "  what  does  she  mean  by  that  ?  "  we  ask  it  not  on 
account  of  any  obscurity  in  her  language  but  on  account  of  the 
depth  and  height  of  her  thoughts. 

The  musical  rhythm  of  our  extracts  prepares  us  for  the  form 
which  many  of  Miss  Mulholland's  inspirations  assume — that  of 
the  song  pure  and  simple.  Those  last  epithets  have  here  more  than 
the  meaning  which  they  usually  bear  in  such  a  context ;  for  these 
songs  are  not  only  eminently  singable,  but  they  are  marked  by 
a  very  attractive  purity  and  simplicity.  There  are  many  of  them 
besides  this  one  which  alone  bears  no  other  name  than  "  Song/' 

The  silent  bird  is  hid  in  the  boughs, 

The  scythe  is  hid  in  the  corn, 
The  lazy  oxen  wink  and  drowse, 
^  The  grateful  sheep  are  shorn. 


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Miss  Mulholland's  Poems.  5 

Redder  and  redder  burns  the  rose, 

The  lily  was  ne'er  so  pale, 
Stiller  and  stiller  the  river  flows 

Along  the  path  to  the  Tale. 

A  little  door  is  hid  in  the  boughs, 

A  face  is  hiding  within ; 
When  birds  are  silent  andt  oxen  drowse. 

Why  should  a  maiden  spin  ? 
Slower  and  slower  turns  the  wheel, 

The  face  turns  red  and  pale, 
Brighten  and  brighten  the  looks  that  steal 

Along  the  path  to  the  vale. 

Here  and  everywhere  how  few  are  the  adjectives,  and  never 
any  slipped  in  as  mere  adjectives.  Verbs  and  nouns  do  duty  for 
them,  and  the  pictures  paint  themselves.  There  is  more  of  genius, 
art,  thought,  and  study  in  this  self-restraining  simplicity  than  in 
the  freer  and  bolder  eloquence  that  might  make  young  pulses 
tingle. 

This  remarkable  faculty  for  musical  verse  seems  to  us  to 
enhance  the  merit  of  a  poem  in  which  a  certain  ruggedness  is 
introduced  of  set  purpose.  At  least  we  think  that  the  subtle 
sympathy  which  in  the  workmanship  of  a  true  poet  links  theme 
and  metre  together  is  curiously  exemplified  in  "  News  to  Tell." 
What  metre  is  it  P  A  very  slight  change  here  and  there  would 
conform  it  to  the  sober,  solemn  measure  familiar  to  the  least  poeti- 
cal of  us  in  Gray's  marvellous  "  Elegy  in  a  Country  Churchyard." 
That  elegiac  tone  already  suits  the  rhythm  here  to  the  pathetic 
story.  But  then  the  wounded  soldier,  who  perhaps  will  not  recover 
after  all  but  may  follow  his  dead  comrade — see  how  he  drags 
himself  with  difficulty  away  from  the  old  gray  castle  where  the 
young  widow  and  the  aged  mother  are  overwhelmed  by  the  news 
he  had  to  tell ;  and  is  not  all  this  with  exquisite  cunning  repre- 
sented by  the  halting  gait  of  the  metre,  in  which  every  line 
deviates  just  a  little  from  the  normal  scheme  of  five  iambics  P 

Neighbour,  lend  me  your  arm,  for  I  am  not  well, 
This  wound  you  see  is  scarcely  a  fortnight  old, 

All  for  a  sorry  message  I  had  to  tell, 

I've  travelled  many  a  mile  in  wet  and  cold. 

Yon  is  the  old  grey  chateau  above  the  road, 

He  bade  me  seek  it,  my  comrade  brave  and  gay ; 

Stately  forest  and  river  so  brown  and  broad, 
He  showed  me  the  scene  as  he  a-dying  lay. 


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6  Miss  Mulholland's  Poems. 

I  have  been  there,  and,  neighbour,  I  am  not  well; 

I  bore  his  sword  and  some  of  his  curling  hair, 
Knocked  at  the  gate  and  said  I  had  news  to  tell, 

Entered  a  chamber  and  saw  his  mother  .there. 

Tall  and  straight  with  the  snows  of  age  on  her  head, 
Brave  and  stern  as  a  soldier's  mother  might  be, 

Beep  in  her  eyes  a  living  look  of  the  dead, 
She  grasped  her  staff  and  silently  gazed  at  me. 

I  thought  I'd  better  be  dead  than  meet  her  eye ; 

She  guessed  it  all,  I'd  never  a  word  to  tell. 
Taking  the  sword  in  her  arms  she  heaved  a  sigh, 

Clasping  the  curl  in  her  hand  she  sobbed,  and  fell. 

I  raised  her  up ;  she  sate  in  her  stately  chair, 
Her  face  like  death,  but  not  a  tear  in  her  eye ; 

We  heard  a  step,  and  tender  voice  on  the  stair 
Murmuring  soft  to  an  infant's  cooing  cry. 

My  lady  she  sate  erect,  and  sterner  grew. 
Finger  on  mouth  she  motioned  me  not  to  stay ; 

A  girl  came  in,  the  wife  of  the  dead  I  knew, 
She  held  his  babe,  and,  neighbour,  I  fled  away ! 

1  tried  to  run,  but  I  heard  the  widow's  cry. 

Neighbour,  I  have  been  hurt  and  I  am  not  well : 
I  pray  to  God  that  never  until  I  die 

May  I  again  have  such  sorry  news  to  tell ! 

The  next  piece  that  we  shall  cite  has  travelled  across  the 
Atlantic  and  come  back  again  under  false  pretences  and  without 
its  author's  leave  or  knowledge.  Some  years  ago  an  American 
newspaper  published  some  pathetic  stanzas  to  which  it  gave  as  a 
title  "  Exquisite  Effusion  of  a  Dying  Sister  of  Charity."  One 
into  whose  hands  this  journal  chanced  to  fall  read  on  with  interest 
and  pleasure,  feeling  the  verses  strangely  familiar — till  on  reflec- 
tion he  found  that  the  poem  had  been  published  sometime  before 
in  The  Month  over  the  well-known  initials  R.  M.  As  the  American 
journalist  named  the  Irish  Convent  where  the  Sister  of  Charity 
had  died — not  one  of  Mrs.  Aikenhead's  spiritual  daughters,  but  one 
of  those  whom  we  call  French  Sisters  of  Charity — the  reader  afore- 
said went  to  the  trouble  of  writing  to  the  Mother  Superior,  who 
gave  the  following  explanation.  The  holy  Sister  had  been  fond  of 
reading  and  writing  verse;  and  these  verses  with  others  were 
found  in  her  desk  after  her  death  and  handed  over  to  her  relatives 


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Mits  MulhollancPs  Poems*  7 

as  relics.  They,  not  comparing  them  very  critically  with  the 
nun's  genuine  literary  remains,  rashly  published  them  as  "  The 
Exquisite  Effusion  of  a  Dying  Sister  of  Charity."  The  foregoing 
circumstances  were  soon  afterwards  published  in  the  Boston  Pilot; 
but  the  ghost  of  such  a  blunder  is  not  so  easily  laid,  and  the  poem 
reappears  in  The  Messenger  of  St.  Joseph  for  last  August,  under 
the  title  of  "  An  Invalid's  Plaint "  and  still  attributed  to  the 
dying  Nun  who  had  only  had  the  good  taste  to  admire  and  tran- 
scribe Miss  Mulholland's  poem.  In  all  its  wanderings  to-and-fro 
across  the  Atlantic  many  corruptions  crept  into  the  text ;  and  it 
would  be  an  interesting  exercise  in  style  to  collate  the  version 
given  by  The  Messenger  with  the  authorised  edition  which  we 
here  copy  from  page  136  of  "  Vagrant  Verses,"  where  the  poem 
of  course  bears  its  original  name  of  u  Failure." 

The  Lord,  Who  fashioned  my  hands  for  working, 

Set  me  a  task,  and  it  is  not  done ; 
I  tried  and  tried  since  the  early  morning, 

And  now  to  westward  sinketh  the  sun ! 


Noble  the  task  that  was  kindly  given 

To  one  so  little  and  weak  as  I — 
Somehow  my  strength  could  never  grasp  it, 

Never,  as  days  and  years  went  by. 

Others  around  me,  cheerfully  toiling, 
Showed  me  their  work  as  they  passed  away  5 

Filled  were  their  hands  to  overflowing. 
Proud  were  their  hearts,  and  glad  and  gay. 

Laden  with  harvest  spoils  they  entered 
In  at  the  golden  gate  of  their  rest; 

Laid  their  sheaves  at  the  feet  of  the  Master, 
Found  their  places  among  the  blest. 

Happy  be  they  who  strove  to  help  me, 
Failing  ever  in  spite  of  their  aid  ! 

Fain  would  their  love  have  borne  me  onward, 
But  1  was  unready  and  sore  afraid. 

Now  I  know  my  task  will  never  be  finished, 
And  when  the  Master  calleth  my  name, 

The  Voice  will  find  me  still  at  my  labour, 
Weeping  beside  it  in  weary  shame. 


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8  Mm  MulhollancCs  Poems. 

With  empty  hands  I  shall  rise  to  meet  Him, 
And,  when  He  looks  for  the  fruits  of  years, 

Nothing1  have  I  to  lay  before  Him 
But  broken  efforts  and  bitter  tears. 

Yet  when  He  calls  I  fain  would  hasten — 
Mine  eyes  are  dim  and  their  light  is  gone ; 

And  I  am  as  weary  as  though  1  carried 
A  burthen  of  beautiful  work  well  done. 

I  will  fold  my  empty  hands  on  my  bosom, 

Meekly  thus  in  the  shape  of  His  Gross ; 
And  the  Lord  Who  made  them  frail  and  feeble 

Maybe  will  pity  their  strife  and  loss. 

It  might  have  been  expected  that  so  skilful  an  artist  in  beauti- 
ful words  would  be  sure  occasionally  to  find  the  classic  sonnet- 
form  the  most  fitting  vehicle  for  some  rounded  and  stately  thought. 
About  half  a  dozen  sonnets  are  strewn  over  these  pages,  all  cast 
in  the  true  Petrarchan  mould,  and  all  very  properly  bearing  names 
of  their  own,  like  any  other  form  of  verse,  instead  of  being 
labelled  promiscuously  as  "  sonnets."  The  following  is  called 
"  Love."  What  a  sublime  ideal,  only  to  be  realised  in  human  love 
when  in  its  self-denying  sacredness  it  approaches  the  divine  ! 

True  love  is  that  which  never  can  be  lost : 

Though  cast  away,  alone  and  ownerless, 
Like  a  strayed  child  that  wandering  misses  most 

When  night  comes  down  its  mother's  last  caress ; 

True  love  dies  not  when  banished  and  forgot, 

But,  solitary,  barters  still  with  Heaven 
The  scanty  share  of  joy  cast  in  its  lot 

For  joys  to  the  beloved  freely  given. 

Love  smiling  stands  afar  to  watch  and  see 
Each  blessing  it  has  bought,  like  angel's  kiss, 

Fall  on  the  loved  one's  face,  who  ne'er  may  know 
At  what  strange  cost  thus,  overflowingly, 

His  cup  is  filled,  or  how  its  depth  of  bliss 
Doth  give  the  measure  of  another's  woe. 

As  this  happens  to  be  the  solitary  one  among  Miss  Mulholland's 
sonnets  which  in  the  arrangement  of  the  quatrains  varies  slightly 
from  the  most  orthodox  tradition  of  this  pharisee  of  song,  I  will 
give  another  specimen,  prettily  named  "  Among  the  Boughs." 


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Mm  Muttiollantfs  Poems.  9 

High  on  a  gnarled  and  mossy  forest  bough, 

Dreaming,  I  hang  between  the  earth  and  sky, 

The  golden  moon  through  leafy  mystery 
Gazing  aslant  at  me  with  glowing  brow. 
And  since  all  living  creatures  slumber  now, 

O  nightingale,  save  only  thou  and  I, 

Tell  me  the  secret  of  thine  ecstasy, 
That  none  may  know  save  only  I  and  thou. 

Alas,  all  vainly  doth  my  heart  entreat ; 
Thy  magic  pipe  unfolds  but  to  the  moon 
What  wonders  thee  in  faery  worlds  befell : 
To  her  is  sung  thy  midnight-music  sweet, 
And  ere  she  wearies  of  thy  mellow  tune, 
She  hath  thy  secret,  and  will  guard  it  well ! 

Unstinted  as  our  extracts  have  been,  there  are  poems  here  by 
the  score  over  which  our  choice  has  wavered.  Our  selection, 
while  passing  over  the  poems  which  might  already  be  familiar  to 
some  readers,  and  therefore  passing  over  many  of  the  best,  has 
been  made  partly  with  a  view  to  the  illustration  of  the  variety  and 
versatility  displayed  by  this  new  poet  in  matter  and  form ;  and  on 
this  principle  we  are  tempted  to  quote  "  Girlhood  at  Midnight  "  as 
the  only  piece  of  blank  verse  in  Miss  Mulholland's  repertory,  to  show 
how  musical,  how  far  from  blank,  she  makes  that  most  difficult 
and  perilous  measure.  But  we  must  put  a  restraint  on  ourselves 
and  just  give  one  more  sample  of  the  achievements  of  the  author 
of  "  The  Little  Flower  Seekers"  and  "  The  Wild  Birds  of  Kil- 
leevy "  in  what  an  old  writer  calls  "  the  mellifluous  meeters  of 
poesie."  This  last  is  called  "A  Rebuke/'  Was  there  ever  a 
sweeter  or  gentler  rebuke  ? 

Why  are  you  so  sad  P  (ring  the  birds,  the  little  birds,) 

All  the  sky  is  blue, 
We  are  in  our  branches,  yonder  are  the  herds, 

And  the  sun  is  on  the  dew; 
Everything  is  merry,  (ring  the  happy  little  birds,) 

Everything  but  you ! 

Fire  is  on  the  hearthstone,  the  ship  is  on  the  wave, 

Pretty  eggs  are  in  the  nest, 
Yonder  sits  a  mother  smiling  at  a  grave, 

With  a  baby  at  her  breast; 
And  Christ  was  on  the  earth,  and  the  sinner  He  forgave 

Is  with  Him  in  His  rest. 


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10  Mm  MulhollaruTs  Poems.     . 

We  shall  droop  oar  wings,  (pipe*  the  throttle  on  the  tree,) 

When  everything  is  done: 
Time  unfarleth  yours,  that  you  soar  eternally 

In  the  regions  of  the  sun. 
When  our  day  is  over,  (sing*  the  blackbird  in  the  lea,) 

Yours  is  but  begun  I 

Then  why  are  you  so  sad  P  (warble  all  the  little  birds,) 

While  the  sky  is  blue, 
Brooding  over  phantoms  and  vexing  about  words 

That  never  can  be  true; 
Everything  is  merry,  (trill  the  happy,  happy  birds,) 

Everything  but  you  I 

The  setting  of  these  jewels  is  almost  worthy  of  them.  The 
book  is  brought  out  with  that  faultless  taste  which  has  helped  to 
win  for  the  firm  of  No.  1  Paternoster-square  such  fame  as  poets'  pub- 
lishers. A  large  proportion  of  contemporary  poetry  of  the  highest 
name,  including  till  lately  the  Laureate's,  has  appeared  under  the 
auspices  of  Kegan  Paul,  Trench,  and  Company,  who  seem  to  have 
expended  special  care  on  the  production  of  "  Vagrant  Verses." 

And  now,  as  we  have  let  these  poems  chiefly  speak  for  them- 
selves, enough  has  been  said.  We  do  not  hesitate  to  add  in  con- 
clusion that  those  among  us  with  pretensions  to  literary  culture, 
who  do  not  hasten  to  contribute  to  the  exceptional  success  which 
awaits  a  work  such  as  even  our  brief  account  proves  this  work  to 
be,  will  so  far  have  failed  in  their  duty  towards  Irish  genius.  For 
this  book  more  than  any  that  we  have  yet  received  from  its  author's 
hand — nay,  more  than  any  that  we  can  hope  to  receive  from  her, 
since  this  is  the  consummate  flower  of  her  best  years — will  serve  to 
secure  for  the  name  of  Rosa  Mulholland  an  enduring  place  among 
the  most  richly  gifted  of  the  daughters  of  Erin. 


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(  11  ) 


A  CURIOUS  RELIC  OF  THOMAS  FRANCIS  MEAGHER. 

A  THICK,  strongly  bound,  and  well  filled  manuscript-book  lies 
before  us,  which  bears  the  title  "  Six  Tears  in  Clongowes, 
by  a  Rhetorician  of  '40,"  and  on  the  page  before  the  title  is 
written  crosswise :  "  To  D.  V.  Donegan  I  present  this  old  scratch- 
book  in  token  (and  a  queer  one  it  is)  of  my  sincere  affection. 
Thomas  Francis  Meagher,  Richmond  Prison,  June  8th,  1849." 

Mr.  D.  V.  Donegan  of  Cork,  whose  kindness  allows  us  to  make 
this  use  of  his  treasured  keepsake,  first  made  Meagher's  acquaint- 
ance when  the  latter  returned  on  a  visit  to  Clongowes  in  1843. 
This  acquaintance  ripened  into  friendship,  the  more  readily  because 
Meagher's  bosom-friend  was  a  cousin  of  Mr.  Donegan's,  Charles 
Murphy,  a  younger  brother  of  Father  Frank  Murphy,  S.  J.,  still 
well  remembered  in  Ireland,  though  his  work  for  many  years  has 
lain  in  Australia.  Charles  Murphy  died  while  Meagher  was  in 
Richmond  Prison  under  sentence,  and  Mr.  Donegan  at  Meagher's 
earnest  entreaty  visited  him  there  to  console  him  and  to  tell  all 
the  particulars  of  their  poor  friend's  death.  He  was  with  him  as 
often  as  he  could,  and  he  was  with  him  the  night  before  Meagher 
was  transported  to  Van  Dieman's  Land.  When  he  was  leaving  at 
the  usual  hour,  the  Governor  of  the  gaol,  Mr.  Marquis,  met  him 
and  told  him  to  go  back  and  bid  his  friend  a  last  farewell,  as  in 
the  morning  he  was  to  sail,  the  convict-ship  then  lying  ready  for 
the  prisoners  at  Kingstown.  Mr.  Donegan  returned^*)  Meagher's 
cell,  which  he  found  empty ;  so,  acting  from  a  generous  impulse 
of  affection,  he  crept  under  the  bed,  determined,  if  he  could,  to 
pass  with  his  friend  his  last  night  in  Ireland.  The  prison  seems  to 
have  been  loosely  enough  managed  at  that  time,  for  Mr.  Donegan 
remained  undisturbed  until  after  a  considerable  interval  Meagher 
returned.  When  he  came  in,  the  cell  was  locked  up  for  the  night. 
He  then  seated  himself  at  the  little  table,  leaned  his  head  on  his 
hand  and  sighing  deeply  said  aloud : — "  My  last  night  in  Ireland, 
and  alone!"  "No,  Tom,  not  alone,"  said  his  faithful  friend, 
emerging  from  his  uncomfortable  hiding-place,  "  I  am  here,  and 
will  remain  with  you  to  the  last."  "Good  God!"  exclaimed 
Meagher,  "what  will  become  of  you  if  you  are  discovered?" 
forgetting  his  own  sad  condition  in  anxiety  for  one  who  had  shown 
gaoh  devotion  to  him.    They  spent  the  night  together,  and  then  it 

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12  A  Curious  Relic  of  Thomas  Francis  Meagher. 

was  that  Meagher  presented  the  curious  manuscript-book  from 
which  the  following  extracts  are  taken.  On  the  same  occasion  he 
gave  him  his  uniform  as  a  member  of  the  '82  club,  both  which 
relics  of  one  he  loved  so  much  Mr.  Donegan,  it  is  unnecessary  to 
add,  moat  highly  prizes  and  cherishes.  In  the  morning,  when 
Marquis  discovered  what  had  happened,  he  took  Mr.  Donegan  aside 
and  said  to  him  : — "  I  understand  what  has  prompted  you  to  do 
this ;  but,  remember,  if  it  is  found  out,  I  am  ruined."  The  tale 
was  never  told  till  Marquis  was  beyond  the  reach  of  injury  from 
its  being  known.  This  act  of  friendship  was  near  costing  the 
doer  of  it  very  dear.  That  night  a  rescue,  as  was  afterwards 
ascertained,  was  to  have  been  attempted,  which,  if  unforeseen  causes 
had  not  prevented  it,  would  in  all  probability  have  marked  Mr. 
Donegan  out  as  an  accomplice,  and  so  consigned  him  to  share  not 
only  in  his  friend's  prison-cell  but  later  in  his  sentence  of  trans- 
portation. 

When  Mr.  Justin  Mac  Carthy  lately  delivered  a  lecture  on  Irish 
eloquence,  after  Burke,  and  Sheridan,  and  Sheil,  and  O'Connell, 
he  named  Thomas  Francis  Meagher  as  the  orator  of  the  Young 
Ireland  movement,  This  scratch-book,  as  the  young  orator  calls 
it,  gives  no  hope  of  his  fascinating  eloquence,  except  in  showing 
the  care  with  which  he  drafted  his  speeches  and  even  his  letters. 
He  does  not  name  the  person  to  whom  the  following  letter  was  to 
be  addressed  : — 

You  use  me  cruelly  :  you  have  sent  me  but  two  letters  since  I  have  been 
at  Stonyhurst,  and  these  too  agreeable  not  to  make  me  sensible  how  great  my 
loss  is  in  not  receiving  more.  Next  to  seeing  you  is  the  pleasure  of  seeing  your 
handwriting ;  next  to  hearing  you  is  the  pleasure  of  hearing  from  you.  Duties 
of  no  ordinary  weight  which  devolve  npon  you  oblige  me  to  excuse  you  :  and 
this  I  do  the  more  willingly  because  I  know  you  desire  to  keep  up  a  constant 
correspondence  with  me. 

To-day  closed  the  third  term,  and,  as  you  will  see  by  the  accompanying 
programme,  there  was  an  academical  exhibition  given  by  the  First  of  Gram- 
marians.* (l  The  Death  of  Nelson  '*  was  performed  in  brilliant  style  and  was 
received  with  loud  and  prolonged  clapping.  When  the  piece  was  ended,  the 
reading  out  of  the  names  took  place — only  of  the  compositions,  as  the  Examen 
report  is  not  made  till  next  week,  as  is  always  the  case.  I  am  gratified  to  tell 
you  I  got  sixth  place.  As  there  is  no  distinction  given  of  the  several  themes, 
I  cannot  tell  you  whether  I  got  first  for  the  poem  or  not,  but  this  I  can  say  that 
my  English  composition  must  have  been  chiefly  instrumental  in  raising  me 
so  high.  W.B.  If  I  who  was  always  one  of  the  last  at  Olongowescan  get 
so   good  a  place,    how   much  superior   would  not   [one  name  illegible]  M. 

*  The  members  of  the  first  class  of  grammar. 

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A  Curiam  Belie  of  Thomas  Francis  Meagher.  13 

Coghlan  and  Power  be  oyer  the  Stonyhurstians,  were  they  to  come  here.  The 
subject  of  the  English  poem  was  "  The  Foundation  of  Venice  5  "  that  of  the 
Latin  was  "  The  Death  of  Brian  Boru."  The  elegy  was  a  translation  from 
Moore. 

Our  opinion  of  the  worth  and  interest  of  this  "  scratch-book  " 
of  poor  Meagher  has  grown  during  the  short  time  that  we  have 
spent  turning  over  its  leaves.  The  Vergniaud  of  '48  was  capable 
of  spelling  incorrectly,  but  one  can  trace  the  orator  in  the  rounded 
and  (sooth  to  say)  stilted  periods  which  the  lad  prepares  here  to 
inflict  on  his  correspondents.  Highly  effective  speakers  are  some- 
times effective  by  reason  of  qualities  which  unfit  them  for  a  good 
sober  style  of  writing — although,  if  both  speakers  and  hearers  had 
good  taste  and  judgment,  the  best  speaking  would  generally  be  the 
best  writing  also.  In  after  years  Meagher  often  wrote  what  he 
intended  to  be  read ;  but  we  think  he  never  escaped  from  the  plat- 
form style.  It  was  with  a  special  significance  that  The  Nation 
supplement  which  first  gathered  together  some  of  Meagher's  most 
brilliant  speeches  called  them  "  The  Orations  of  Thomas  Francis 
Meagher." 

The  spell  which  these  speeches  once  exercised  over  a  certain 
little  lad  who  used  to  spout  them  out  in  the  solitude  of  certain 
mountain  braes  to  the  astonishment  of  the  sheep,  his  only  listeners — 
these  hallowed  associations  will  not  allow  me  to  publish  here  such 
unfavourable  samples  as  drafts  of  schoolboy  speeches  in  Debating 
Societies,  or  the  letters  which  Meagher  wrote  under  the  signature 
of  "  Henry  Grattan  "  in  a  college  controversy  with  someone  signing 
himself  "  Ninu-cd."  One  of  his  embryo  essays  begins :  u  In  the 
month  of  June,  1835,  I  visited  the  ruins  of  Dunbrody  Abbey." 
Then  follows  a  page  or  two  full  of  blottings  and  interlineations. 
But  he  succeeded  better  with  "  A  Visit  to  the  Lakes  of  Killarney," 
to  which  he  devotes  some  twenty  pages  in  .which  he  exercises  per- 
petually "  that  last  and  greatest  art — the  art  to  blot."  As  another 
date  in  his  early  life  we  give  the  opening  words :  "  It  was  late  in 
the  evening  of  the  6th  of  August,  1837,  that  I  arrived  at  the 
Kenmare  Arms.'1 

The  most  elaborate  part,  however,  of  this  curious  relic  of 
Thomas  Francis  Meagher  consists  of  some  sixty  pages  which  go 
further  than  any  other  portion  of  the  volume  to  justify  the  title- 
page  with  its  amateur  printing :  "  Six  Tears  in  Clongowes,  written 
by  a  Rhetorician  of  '40" — though  the  narrative  does  not  go 
beyond  six  days.  Was  it  in  mercy  to  his  little  boy  that  his  father 
allowed  his  school-life  to  begin  so  very  near  to  the  summer 
vacation  P 

Vol.  xiv.  No.  151.  Digitized  by  Gt>CK 


14  A  Curious  Belie  of  Thomas  Francis  Meagher. 

"  Late  in  the  evening  of  the  12th  of  June,  1834, 1  drove  up 
the  Naas  avenue  leading  to  dongowes.  The  sun  was  declining/' 
Ac.  [two  pages  of  very  boyish  reflections  follow,  which  we  omit]. 
"  Bather  concealed  by  some  intervening  trees  rose  the  towers  of  the 
castle,  while  the  rest  of  the  building  appeared  now  and  then  through 
the  woods  which  form  a  grand  enclosure  round  this  noble  demesne/9 

Then  comes  another  page  of  reflections  too  puerile  to  quote 
even  as  a  curiosity,  attributed  by  a  rhetorician  of  sixteen  years  to 
a  boy  of  eleven.  He  describes  the  room  into  which  they  were  first 
shown — "a  handsome  and  elegant  apartment,  lit  by  a  dome  of  glass, 
while  the  walls  of  a  noble  height  were  richly  ornamented  with 
workings  in  stucco."  The  young  writer  proceeds  to  describe  his 
uncle,  Father  Meagher,  S  J.,  whom  at  first  he  and  his  brother 
Henry  cannot  recognize,  because,  as  the  juvenile  writer  pretends, 
he  was  so  utterly  changed  by  his  religious  habit  from  the  wit  and 
the  dandy  who  had  been  a  prominent  figure  in  the  club-room  and 
the  ball-room.  One  cannot  help  suspecting  that  the  lad  was  only 
trying  to  make  sentences  out  of  the  scantiest  materials,  condescend- 
ing to  describe  very  minutely  his  first  dinner  at  Glongowes,  more 
elegant  than  many  that  he  afterwards  partook  of  with  a  heartier 
appetite.  His  account  of  persons  and  things  is  so  melodramatic 
that  one  takes  the  liberty  of  supposing  it  to  be  more  an  effort  of 
imagination  than  of  memory ;  and  there  are  no  characteristic 
touches  in  the  boyish  composition  which  might  tempt  us  to  single 
out  any  further  specimens. 

During  Meagher's  sojourn  at  Glongowes  Wood  his  Alma  Mater 
celebrated  in  the  year  1839  her  noces  cTargent,  her  silver  jubilee, 
the  twenty-fifth  anniversary  of  the  foundation  of  the  college.  On 
the  "academy- day"  of  that  year  the  event  was  sung  in  heroic 
metre,  with  a  due  proportion  of  classic  allusions.  As  an  accident 
has  placed  in  our  hands  at  the  same  time  the  young  Clongownian's 
"  scratch-book  "  and  a  scrapbook  of  Clongowes  compositions,  we 
may  insert  here  this  extract  from  the  latter  collection  : — 

Scared  by  the  din  of  war  that  shook  the  world, 
When  first  Napoleon  to  the  breeze  unfurled 
Ambition's  banner,  meek-eyed  learning  sought 
Some  spot  congenial  to  the  peaceful  thought, 
And  peaceful  language  of  the  Muse's  strains, 
But  vainly  sought  it  o'er  Europa's  plains 
Where  to  repose  once  more  her  virgin  choir 
And  tune  to  joy's  wild  pathos  all  her  lyre. 
Mourning  she  turned— when  lo  1  a  distant  isle 
Based  midst  the  ocean's  foam  is  seen  to  smile  j 

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A  Curious  Relic  qf  Thomas  Francis  Meagher.  15 

Where  perfumed  gales  their  dew-dropt  winge  expand 
And  sprinkle  fragrance  thro*  that  happy  land, 
Where  lovelier  rills  than  bright  Meander  flow 
And  flowers  with  nature's  loveliest  colours  glow, 
Where  brighter  hills  than  Ida  deck  the  scene 
And  slope  to  valleys  of  perennial  green ; 
Where  hallowed  oaks  of  stateliest  growth  deride 
Dodona's  fame  and  frown  in  classic  pride. 
And  here  a  spot  arrests  her  wandering  gaze, 
Throned  mid  the  woodland  vista's  flowery  maze ; 
Streams  circle  near,  while  farther  Liffoy's  tide 
Is  seen  in  sombre  majesty  to  glide ; 
While  trees,  with  shrubs  commingling,  form  a  shade 
For  fancy's  dreams  and  contemplation  made. 
All  seemed  to  woo  delay — "  Here,  here,"  she  said 
41  Shall  fount  Pierian  gush  from  where  I  tread." 
Then  viewing  near  a  castle's  stately  dome — 
"  Here,"  she  exclaimed,  *'  shall  be  my  favourite  home. 
And  here  assisted  by  my  fostering  hand 
Shall  virtue  rear  the  youth  of  Erin's  land. 
And  as  the  eagle  towering  o'er  the  height 
Of  Glendaloch's  wreathed  cliffs,  instructs  for  flight 
Her  generous  young,  and  points  the  way  to  rise 
On  heavenward  pinions  to  the  sun-lit  skies, 
So  shall  I  teach  my  favourite  youth  to  soar 
And  grasp  at  truth  on  wings  of  classic  lore." 
She  said — nor  vain  her  seraph  accents  fell 
In  the  full  unison  of  lyre  and  shell. 
For  since  that  hour  of  happiest  omen  shone 
Ne'er  from  that  spot  has  learning's  genius  flown, 
Ne'er  ceased  the  Muse  to  tune  her  harp  sublime, 
And  laugh  to  scorn  the  palsying  arm  of  time. 
Yes,  Clongowes,  oft  since  then  has  glory  shed 
Its  loveliest  halo  round  thy  beaming  head 
And  with  thy  children's  praises  linked,  thy  name 
Has  shone  emblazoned  on  the  rolls  of  fame. 
Since  then  the  quarter  of  an  age  has  passed, 
Nor  hath  time's  wing  its  envious  shadow  cast 
To  dim  the  lustre  of  thy  youthful  brow, 
Still  brilliant  as  thou  wert  we  view  thee  now, 
Nor  tremble  for  thy  glories.    No,  even  we 
With  new-born  rays  shall  swell  thy  brilliancy, 
And  fired  by  those  whom  men  with  wond'ring  eyes 
Have  seen  like  stars  in  learning's  sphere  arise 
Shall  press  still  forward  in  the  paths  of  fame 
With  youth's  warm  zeal  to  vindicate  thy  name 
To  fadeless  laurels— whilst  in  letters  bright 
Stamped  on  thy  walls,  illumed  by  memory's  light, 
Shall  live  the  name  of  him  whose  parent  eye 
Watched  with  a  parent's  fondness  o'er  thy  infancy. 


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16  In  the  Desert. 

These  concluding  lines  allude  to  the  first  Rector  of  Clongowes, 
Father  Peter  Kenny,  S.J.  A  manuscript  diary  kept  at  Clongowes 
when  the  college  was  only  two  years  old  lies  here  before  us, 
beginning  with  the  names  of  the  members  of  the  community,  the 
first  being  of  course  Father  Kenny's  and  the  last  being  that  of 
Brother  John  Curtis  who  came  to  the  college  on  the  22nd  of 
November,  1816,  after  his  two  years  in  the  novitiate  of  the  Society 
— namely,  that  venerable  patriarch  who  has  only  just  passed  away 
from  us,  dying  at  St.  Francis  Xavier's,  Dublin,  on  the  10th  of 
November,  1885,  in  the  ninety-second  year  of  his  age. 

The  poem  that  we  have  quoted  would  have  a  better  right  to  a 
place  in  this  article  if  it  bore  (which  it  does  not)  the  same  endow- 
ment as  a  prose  paper  in  the  same  volume,  namely  an  essay  on  the 
"  Importance  of  Time  "  read  by  Thomas  Meagher  in  the  Concer- 
tatio,  November  9th,  1837.  One  of  the  sentences  preaches  the 
old  lesson  in  these  terms :  "  Were  we  even  secure  of  reaching  a 
happy  old  age,  and  even  taking  it  for  granted  that  we  should  be 
blessed  with  the  longest  period  of  life  ever  allotted  to  man,  we  are 
not  hence  licensed  to  run  into  debt  with  time,  nor  are  we  privileged 
to  burden  to-morrow  with  the  business  of  to-day."  When  the 
boy  "  spouted  "  this  sonorous  period,  he  little  dreamed  of  all  the 
various  fortunes  that  lay  for  him  between  that  moment  and  his  own 
untimely  death  on  an  American  river. 


IN  THE  DESERT. 

"  VTIGHT  closes  round  me,  Lord,  and  black  despair, 
iN      .  Even  than  the  freezing  night-tide  bitterer! 

How  shall  1  banish  these  foul  things,  that  stir, 
Loathly  and  fierce,  until  the  encircling  air 
Grows  but  one  choking  horror  I    Where,  oh  where 
May  my  strest  soul  find  refuge  P    Lo  I  to  her 
In  terror  of  this  darkness,  fiends  aver 
Thou  and  thine  heaven,  but  mocking  dreams,  and  bare  I  " 

"  Raise  thy  dim  eyes ;  breaketh  the  golden  morn 

Across  yon  shadowy  hill — the  black  night  flies — 
And  lo,  I  waiting  stand  to  lead  thee  home ! 
Child,  I  forsake  not— leave  no  soul  forlorn— 

Nor  mocking  dream,  but  sun -filled  Paradise 
Awaits  thy  weary  feet ;  mine  own  child,  come !  * 

Evelyn  Pyse. 


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THE  CHAPLAIN  OF  ST.  DENIS. 

BY  THE  LATE  C.  W.  RUSSELL,  D.l). 

ON  a  lovely  Sunday  evening  in  the  end  of  August,  1792,  a 
party  of  fierce-looking  strangers  seated  themselves  with  an 
insolent  and  swaggering  air  under  the  awning  in  front  of  a 
cabaret  in  the  square  of  the  little  town  of  St.  Denis.  They  were 
all  more  or  less  armed,  and  all,  without  exception,  wore  the  bonnet 
rouge.  The  provincial  accent  in  which  the  greater  number  of 
them  spoke,  showed  that  they  were  new  arrivals  in  the  capital  ; 
and  the  patois  with  which  two  or  three  interlarded  their  conversa- 
tion betrayed  a  Marseillaise  origin.  A  few  of  the  villagers  who 
had  been  sitting  quietly  in  the  shade  before  they  arrived,  made 
way  at  once  for  the  swaggering  strangers ;  and  though  curiosity 
detained  a  few  listeners,  the  majority  slunk  off  with  an  evident 
expression  of  fear,  if  not  dislike,  at  their  approach. 

Nor,  indeed,  was  it  any  wonder.  It  was  an  awful  period. 
May  we  never,  dear  reader,  know  anything  of  its  horrors  except 
from  history!  Men  had  learned,  from  the  reckless  atrocities 
then  daily  and  hourly  committed,  that  no  institution,  however 
venerable,  could  be  regarded  as  staple,  that  no  ordinance,  how- 
ever sacred,  was  secure  from  profanation.  And  especially  it  was 
no  wonder  that  the  poor  burghers  of  St.  Denis  should  tremble  in 
this  inauspicious  presence ;  for  it  was  but  a  short  time  before  that 
a  similar  gang  had  broken  into  the  old  cathedral  of  their  town — 
the  burial-place  of  the  royal  line  of  France — profaned  its  altars, 
rifled  its  tombs,  scattered  the  ashes  of  the  kings  to  the  winds,  and 
destroyed  in  a  few  hours  some  of  the  noblest  monuments  of  anti- 
quity, of  which  not  France  alone  but  Europe  could  boast. 

The  strangers,  however,  took  no  notice  of  the  consternation 
they  occasioned ;  but  after  ordering  a  supply  of  wine  and  eau-de- 
vie,  to  which  they  addressed  themselves  with  no  unpractised  air, 
they  continued  the  conversation  in  which  they  had  seemingly  been 
engaged  before  they  arrived. 

"  That  was  a  clever  job  at  the  St.  Esprit  in  Troyes  last  week," 
said  one,  apparently  the  leader  of  the  party.  "  The  croaking  old 
nuns  refused  for  a  long  time  to  leave  the  convent,  till  at  last 
citizen  Pettica  coolly  set  fire  to  it  over  their  heads ;  and  then,  I 

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18  The  Chaplain  of  St.  Denis. 

promise  you,  they  scampered  off  like  rats  from  a  smoking  corn- 
stack." 

"  But  did  you  hear  of  the  glorious  doings  at  Bordeaux  P  "  said 
one  of  the  Marseillaise.  "  Balmat  is  just  back  from  the  south, 
and  told  it  to  us  last  night  at  the  club,  in  proposing  a  new  mem- 
ber. The  day  before  he  came  away,  he  saw  no  less  than  three  of 
the  ringleaders  of  the  priestly  gang  quietly  disposed  of.  The  first 
was  beheaded,  the  second  drowned,  and  the  third  flogged  to  death ; 
and  the  brother  of  one  of  them,  the  gallant  fellow  whom  Balmat 
proposed  for  the  club,  was  the  very  first  to  plant  the  *  Tree  of 
Liberty '  on  the  spot  still  red  with  his  brother's  blood."* 

"  Bravo/'  replied  Mortier,  the  first  speaker.  "  We  are  picking 
down  the  crows  out  of  the  old  rookery  by  degrees.  They  have 
cawed  too  long  for  liberty/ ' 

"  Never  mind/'  said  a  fierce,  red-whiskered  fellow,  more  than 
half  drunk  already,  though  he  still  plied  the  bottle  steadily. 
"  Never  mind!  This  slow  work  will  never  do.  We  must  burn 
them  out  by  wholesale,  and  pay  off  all  scores  at  once." 

"  Well  said,  Bichaud  !  "  echoed  two  or  three  of  the  Marseil- 
laise voices.  "  Give  us  the  wholesale  work !  Here's  to  Meslier's 
immortal  toast :  '  Que  le  dernier  dee  rats  soit  etrangU  avec  lee  boyaun 
du  dernier  dee  prStres  /'  "t 

It  is  revolting  to  relate  that  the  brutal  toast  was  received  with 
acclamation  by  the  infatuated  wretches.  Alas,  where  is  the  depth 
of  depravity  too  deep  for  the  human  heart  when  abandoned  to  its 
own  wicked  will!  Alas,  alas,  if  the  gates  of  the  infernal  abyss, 
had  been  flung  open,  and  its  foulest  fiends  had  walked  the  earth 
uncontrolled,  what  is  the  possible  enormity  their  hellish  ingenuity 
could  devise,  that  has  not  actually  been  exceeded  by  the  incarnate 
fiends  of  this  unhappy  time ! 

During  the  clamour  which  succeeded  the  toast,  one  of  the 
party  rose,  and  withdrew  from  the  cabaret.  He  had  hardly  yet 
reached  the  prime  of  manhood,  but  his  stern  and  gloomy  features 
wore  a  dark  and  sullen,  though  not  utterly  depraved,  expression. 
Of  a  rank  evidently  superior  to  that  of  his  companions,  he  was  an 
amateur  in  the  work  of  violence  for  which  they  were  hired.  He  waa 
a  professed  lover  of  liberty,  though  he  could  hardly  conceal  from 
himself  that  his  feelings  were  strongly  warped  by  misanthropy 

*  This  is  literally  true. 

t  u  May  the  last  of  the  Kings  be  strangled  with  the  bowels  of  the  last  of  the, 
Priests ! "  This  brutal  wish  of  Meslier  is  actually  recorded  of  him  with  approval 
by  Naigeon  in  the  article  on  his  life. 


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The  Chaplain  of  8t.  Deni*.  10 

and  disappointed  ambition.  Still,  he  had  wrought  himself  up  to 
a  degree  of  enthusiasm  in  his  new  career,  and  regarded  the  cruelties 
by  which  it  was  marked  as  but  the  wild  justice  of  an  insulted 
people,  whose  sense  of  wrong,  pent  up  for  centuries  of  oppression, 
had  at  length  burst  out  with  a  violence  which  it  was  idle  to  re- 
strain. The  present  expedition  had  been  undertaken  by  direction 
of  the  higher  powers  for  the  arrest  of  several  non-juring  priests, 
who  were  reported  to  have  taken  refuge  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
St.  Denis ;  and  Ferrand  (for  so  he  was  called)  had  joined  it  from 
some  undefined  feeling  which  he  could  not  himself  fully  analyze. 

He  strolled  from  the  square  towards  the  old  cathedral,  the 
towers  of  which  were  gorgeously  lighted  up  by  the  declining  sun. 
I  dare  say  but  few  of  my  readers  have  seen  the  cathedral  of  St. 
Denis,  and  those  who  may  happen  to  have  seen  it  of  late  years, 
must  remember  that  at  the  time  of  which  I  speak,  now  fifty  years 
ago,  its  appearance  was  very  different  from  that  which  it  now 
wears.  The  whole  building  bore  numberless  traces  of  recent  vio- 
lence: the  exterior,  now  so  tastefully  and  successfully  restored, 
was  not  only  time-worn — that  one  would  not  have  minded  in  a 
church  of  six  or  seven  centuries'  standing — but  hideously  shattered 
and  dismantled.  The  pinnacles  were  broken,  the  fretwork  was 
destroyed,  the  niches  were  despoiled  of  their  sacred  occupants, 
which  lay  in  fragments  upon  the  ground,  the  gorgeous  windows 
were  shivered  into  pieces,  the  roof,  now  so  exquisitely  finished  in 
"  blue  powdered  in  stars  of  gold,"  was  then  cold,  bare,  and  in  part 
blackened ;  the  pillars  and  frieze  bore  the  fresh  marks  of  the  pick- 
axe and  the  sledge  hammer,  the  statues  were  mutilated  and  hurled 
to  the  ground,  the  boxes  were  rifted  and  flung  down,  the  monu- 
ments were  torn  open,  and  fragments  of  the  coffins  and  other 
memorials  of  the  dead  strewed  the  floor,  the  choir-stalls  were 
hacked  and  disfigured,  the  altars  were  stripped  of  their  sacred 
ornaments,  and  one  or  two  of  them  overthrown ;  in  a  word,  the 
whole  scene  was  an  illustration,  and  even  so  did  it  force  itself  upon 
Ferrand's  mind,  of  "  the  abomination  of  desolation  standing  in  the 
holy  place." 

Still,  even  in  its  desolation,  it  was  a  venerable  old  pile.  Fer- 
rand, who  sa w  it  for  the  first  time,  was  struck,  in  his  own  despite, 
by  the  exquisitely  light  and  graceful  proportion  of  the  exterior, 
the  rich  ornamental  work  of  the  tower,  and  the  gorgeous  tracing 
of  the  doors  and  windows.  He  could  not  withdraw  his  eyes  from 
the  startling,  though  grotesque,  sculptures  which  adorn  the 
entranoe,  and  exerted  all  his  skill  in  trying  to  decipher  (what  was 


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20  The  Chaplain  of  St.  Denis. 

then  a  difficult  task)  the  legend  which  surrounds  it.  I  may  take 
this  opportunity,  while  he  is  so  engaged,  to  tell  a  few  words  of  his 
history. 

Jules  Ferrand  (he  had  dropped  the  aristocratic  Be)  was  a 
younger  son  of  a  noble  family  in  the  Tourraine.  The  eldest 
brother,  as  a  matter  of  course,  was  destined  to  succeed  to  the 
family  estates.  Jules,  with  a  second  brother,  was  born  to  com- 
parative dependence.  Still  his  prospects  to  distinction  were  suffi- 
ciently flattering.  The  utmost  pains  were  bestowed  upon  his 
education,  and  he  was  carefully  trained  up  in  the  strictest  prin- 
ciples of  religion.  From  his  boyhood,  however,  he  had  displayed  a 
degree  of  sensibility  almost  bordering  upon  moroseness.  He  bitterly 
felt  his  inferiority  to  his  more  favoured  brother  ;  and  some  chance 
allusion  to  his  dependent  prospects,  intended  merely  to  stimulate 
his  industry,  fixed  the  barb  of  discontent  in  his  heart  for  ever. 
Ambitious  and  aspiring,  yet  without  the  perseverance  which  would 
enable  him  to  win  his  way  unaided  to  eminence,  and  too  proud  to 
accept,  much  less  to  seek,  the  assistance  which  he  thought  was 
only  extended  as  a  favour,  he  dreamed  away  his  early  youth  in 
unavailing  repinings  at  his  lot.  The  more  pliant  temper  of  his 
younger  brother,  Jean,  opened  a  way  for  him  to  distinction  ;  and 
his  early  success,  which  was  sometimes  put  forward  as  a  model  for 
Jules,  and  the  favour  with  which  he  was  regarded  by  all  who 
knew  him,  tended  still  more  to  embitter  the  lot  of  the  sensitive 
and  unhappy  young  man.  His  repinings  soon  ripened  into  dis- 
content. Evil  companions  completed  the  work  of  disaffection. 
He  became  gradually  estranged  from  his  family  and  friends.  His 
religious  principles  were  one  by  one  undermined.  The  flatteries 
of  false  friends  taught  him  to  believe  that  in  another  state  of 
things  his  talents  could  not  fail  to  secure  him  fortune  and  distinc- 
tion; and  when  the  hour  of  change  arrived,  and  the  revolution  burst 
out  in  all  its  fatal  fury,  he  was  among  the  first  to  hail  the  prospect, 
and  the  .most  violent  in  urging  it  on  to  a  speedy  crisis.  Once  in- 
volved in  the  whirlpool,  he  was  drawn  from  abyss  to  abyss,  till  at  last 
the  natural  feelings  of  humanity  were  almost  totally  obliterated, 
and  he  could  herd  with  the  vilest  and  most  brutal  of  the  revolu- 
tionary mob  on  terms,  not  alone  of  toleration,  but  even  of  fellow- 
ship and  fraternity.  Thus  he  advocated,  or  professed  to  advocate, 
upon  principle,  all  the  violence  into  which  the  more  menial  instru- 
ments of  revolutionary  cruelty  plunged  from  the  mere  instinct  of 
brutality  and  thirst  of  blood. 

That  one  such  as  he  should  be  struck  with  anything  like  regret 


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The  Chaplain  of  St.  Denis.  21 

at  the  sight  which  awaited  him  in  the  interior  of  the  cathedral,  it 
would  hardly  be  natural  to  expect.  Yet  so  it  was.  Hardened  as 
he  was,  a  feeling  akin  to  shame,  if  not  to  remorse,  stole  over  him 
as  he  contemplated  the  scene  of  ruin.  He  could  not  help  asking 
himself  what  the  cause  must  be,  which  it  was  sought  to  uphold  by 
means  like  these ;  and  the  gloomy  silence  of  the  hour,  the  melan- 
choly plight  of  the  venerable  old  aisles,  the  shattered  and  mutilated 
fragments  of  what  once  had  been  bright  and  beautiful,  gave  weight 
and  force  to  the  reflections  which  his  better  feelings  suggested. 
But  he  yielded  not  to  the  impulse.  He  passed  on  with  a  rapid 
and  determined  step,  as  though  he  sought  to  fly  from  the  thoughts 
to  which  he  was  resolved  not  to  give  way. 

Insensibly,  however,  his  pace  slackened,  as  he  passed  around 
the  back  of  the  choir,  and  he  paused  to  examine,  now  the  rude 
sculptures  which  adorn  the  enclosure,  now  the  antique  and  strange 
looking  altars  which  rest  against  the  wall  of  the  church.  The  dim 
and  unsteady  light  of  the  evening  hour  heightened  the  effect 
which  they  were  calculated  to  produce,  by  bringing  out  more 
mysteriously  their  strange  and  uncouth  forms,  and  concealing  the 
injuries  which  they  had  sustained  from  the  recent  violence  of  the 
mob. 

He  was  irresistibly  impelled  to  pause  at  every  step,  and,  in  the 
interest  which  the  examination  created,  he  forgot  for  a  moment 
the  purpose  for  which  the  visit  had  been  made. 

Suddenly,  however,  his  attention  was  recalled  by  the  sound  of 
suppressed  or  distant  voices,  and  he  stood  still,  in  the  hope  of 
discovering  whence  it  issued.  It  was  as  if  immediately  beneath 
his  feet ;  and  after  a  moment's  reflection,  he  concluded  that  it 
came  from  the  crypt,  a  subterraneous  chapel.  Returning  cautiously 
from  the  rear  of  the  high  altar,  he  descended  once  more  into  the 
aisle,  and,  to  his  surprise,  discovered  that  the  massive  iron  gate  of 
the  crypt  lay  open.  He  entered  without  hesitation,  and  threading 
his  way  through  the  dark  passage  at  the  entrance,  he  soon  reached 
a  spot  from  which  he  was  able  to  see  distinctly  what  was  passing 
within. 

A  number  of  little  children  were  assembled  in  the  small  chapel 
which  lies  immediately  below  the  high  altar  in  the  upper  church, 
and  which  is  used  for  the  mass  of  the  dead.  An  old  and  vener- 
able priest,  assisted  by  another  clergyman  still  very  young,  was  in 
the  act  of  addressing  the  little  flock.  They  had  evidently  selected 
this  spot  for  their  Sunday  evening's  devotions,  for  the  purpose  of 
concealment ;  and  the  priest  was  giving  them  a  few  words  of  in- 


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22  The  Chaplain  of  St.  Bents. 

struction  on  the  duties  oi  Christiana,  jttevious  to  dismissing  them 
for  the  night. 

These,  then,  were  the  men  of  whom  Ferrand's  party  were  in 
quest,  and  his  first  impulse  was  to  return  and  bring  them  to  the 
spot  without  delay.  A  certain  undefined  curiosity,  however,  in- 
duced him  to  hesitate  for  a  few  moments,  and  listen  to  the  dis- 
course of  the  old  man.  It  was  upon  the  horror  of  sin,  and  the 
terrors  of  God's  judgment.  Simple  and  unstudied,  it  was  addressed 
direct  to  the  hearts  of  his  little  hearers,  and  from  the  trembling 
lips  of  the  venerable  old  man  it  came  with  a  sort  of  unearthly 
power.  The  whole  scene  was  almost  overpowering.  The  darkness 
which  reigned  all  around,  save  in  the  single  spot  where  the 
preacher  and  his  little  auditory  stood ;  their  eager  and  awe-struck 
young  faces  as  they  gazed  with  breathless  interest  upon  the  speaker; 
the  zeal,  and  charity,  and  paternal  affection  which  gleamed  from 
his  eyes,  and  trembled  in  his  faltering  accents ;  the  simple  earnest- 
ness with  which  he  proposed  the  terrific  truths  which  he  laid 
before  them,  all  came  upon  the  unseen  stranger  with  a  force  which 
he  himself  could  never  have  anticipated.  They  touched  a  chord 
which  for  years  had  lain  silent  and  neglected.  He  strove  to  laugh 
off  the  feelings  this  excited,  as  he  had  done  a  thousand  times.  He 
recalled  all  the  fallacies  by  which  he  so  often  quieted  the  "  still 
small  voice,"  of  his  inward  monitor.  But  it  was  vain.  The 
impression  was  too  strong  to  bo  thus  summarily  dismissed.  He 
would  fain  have  withdrawn  ;  shame,  pride,  anger  urged  him  to  re- 
turn to  his  companions.  But  he  was  withheld  by  an  impulse  which 
he  could  not  resist,  and  remained  rapt  in  the  subject  of  the 
preacher's  address  till  he  had  concluded,  with  even  more  unction 
than  he  had  manifested  in  any  previous  moment. 

Scarcely  had  he  closed,  when  the  little  crowd  fell  upon  their 
knees,  and  all  with  one  voice,  began  to  repeat,  along  with  the 
venerable  priest,  their  evening  prayers — the  very  prayers  which 
Ferrand  in  his  better  days  had  been  taught  to  say.  Their  little  voices 
chimed  harmoniously  together.  The  deep  and  solemn,  though 
trembling,  tones  of  the  old  priest  were  heard  distinctly  above  them. 
They  spoke  to  Ferrand's  heart  of  many  a  long-forgotten  feeling, 
of  many  a  touching  and  tender  memory  long  passed  away.  And 
while  he  gazed  with  intense  anxiety  upon  the  scene,  he  saw  a  mother, 
who  was  among  that  crowd,  take  the  little  hands  of  her  child  within 
her  own,  and  try  to  teach  its  young  lips  to  join  in  the  prayer  which 
it  could  barely  articulate.  This  simple  incident  completed  the 
triumph  of  grace  in  the  softened  heart  of  the  long-lost  man.    He 


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Meflectivn.  33 

flung  Himself  upon  his  knees,  and,  after  a  brief  and  almost  die- 
pairing  prayer,  he  rushed  from  the  spot. 

In  a  few  minutes  after  Ferrand  left  the  church,  a  hurried 
messenger  was  observed  to  enter  the  cabaret,  where  his  companions* 
still  continued  their  carousal,  and  addressed  a  few  words  to  the 
leader  of  the  party.    He  started  up  with  an  air  of  alarm,  and  the 
whole  company  hastily  quitted  the  shop  and  returned  in  confusion 

to  Paris. 

*  * .  *  *  * 

About  a  dozen  year  since*  an  Irish  traveller  heard  the  above 
story  related  in  a  very  affecting  sermon  on  the  religious  education 
of  youth,  from  the  pulpit  of  the  cathedral  of  St.  Denis.  The 
preacher — a  venerable  old  man,  bowed  down  by  the  weight  of  years 
and  apostolic  labours — was  the  long-lost  but  penitent  Ferrand  him- 
self. He  died  in  a  few  months  afterwards,  a  most  holy  and  edify- 
ing death,  and  is  still  affectionately  remembered  by  the  villagers  as 
the  good  old  Chaplain  op  St.  Denis. 


REFLECTION. 

BY  THB   REV.   WILLIAM  SUTTON,   S.J. 

A  PHILOSOPHER,  when  asked  what  philosophy  had  done  for 
him,  replied : — "  It  has  taught  me  to  talk  with  myself." 
That  is  a  man's  own  reward  for  all  the  labour  implied  in  becoming 
even  something  of  a  philosopher.  And  it  is  a  great  one.  Congenial 
society  is  one  of  the  greatest  blessings  we  can  enjoy ;  uncongenial, 
among  the  greatest  and  most  clinging  miseries,  almost  as  bad  as 
ill-health  or  habitual  heart-heaviness.  Wisdom  reconciles  incom- 
patibilities or  what  seem  so.  Man  is  social  or  communing. 
Unphilosophic  man  only  knows  himself  in  others,  thinks  of 
himself  as  related  to  others,  instinctively  flees  from  himself ;  being 
by  himself  is  living  death  to  him.  Inconsistently  he  loves  and 
prizes  himself  as  only  such  men  can,  and  at  the  same  time  hates 
and  despises  his  own  conscious  company,  that  is  when  he  is  not 
occupied  in  or  planning  what  will  enlarge  his  life  with  others. 

*  This  sketch  was  written  more  than  forty  years  ago,  when  Dr.  Russell  was 
a  young  professor  in  Maynooth  College. — En.  I.  M. 

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24  Reflection. 

Philosophic  man  is  a  world  to  himself — never  less  alone  than  when 
alone,  for  as  such  omnia  sua  secum  portat.  His  possessions  are  one, 
— reflection.  How  he  got  it,  is  not  easy  to  say.  He  spent  a  good 
number  of  years  reading  and  mastering  what  others  had  thought 
and  taught.  He  found  great  difficulty  in  coming  at  their  minds 
and  experienced  great  pleasure  after  the  toil,  as  thought  revealed 
itself  to  his  thought,  like  far-off  stars  which  one  sees  through  a 
telescope  when  he  looks  long  into  the  black  firmament.  They 
come  out  from  the  deep  dark  sky  around — so  small,  so  still,  so 
clear,  meaning  so  much,  so  easily  lost,  if  one  is  careless.  After 
awhile  he  found  himself  seeing  the  same  thing  in  different  ways, 
dividing,  combining,  comparing.  He  began  to  understand  how 
language  was  to  be  used  in  order  to  command  attention,  how  word* 
were  to  be  combined,  that  would  give  new  things  the  solidity  and 
power  of  maturity,  and  old  things  the  freshness  and  pleasing 
vigour  of  youth.  Coleridge  says  philosophy  begins  and  ends  in 
wonder.  Men  are  but  children  of  a  larger  growth.  If  a  child 
could  express  its  emotions,  its  fresh  surprises  and  wondering 
imaginings,  it  would  be,  not  indeed  a  philosopher,  but  a  literary 
genius,  for  wisdom  is  separable  from  and  often  unpossessed  by 
masters  of  expression.  The  puzzles  of  the  child  become  the 
problems  of  the  philosopher.  How  came  we  into  the  world  P 
Why  are  we  here?  What  is  the  meaning  of  Roman,  Greek, 
Egyptian,  Asiatic  History  P  Why  are  there  so  mauy  and  so  con- 
flicting religions  in  the  world  P  How  can  people  be  idolaters  P 
Why  are  men  so  cruel  P  Why  do  they  kill  and  torture  one 
another  P  Why  so  much  suffering,  cold,  hunger,  disease  P  And 
savages,  has  God  care  of  them  P  Does  God  really  mind  what  we 
do  P  Are  his  rewards  and  punishments  so  vast  P  What  is  God  P 
What  are  we  P  What  is  the  soul  P  The  answers  that  will  stop  a 
child's  inquiries  will  but  stimulate  the  philosopher's  obstinate 
questionings.  One  of  the  most  curious  results  of  philosophic 
research  is  that  the  ideas  of  children  on  the  most  fundamental 
truths  are  perfectly  sound,  while  the  ideas  of  numberless  philo- 
sophers on  the  same  points  are  utterly  wrong.  Two  very  striking 
examples  of  this  are  the  notions  of  causality  and  free  will.  These 
are  simple,  self-evident  ideas,  overwhelmingly  clear  to  the  unpre- 
judiced, unsophisticated  intellect.  But  as  the  notion  of  and 
belief  in  God  is  easy  and  natural  for  the  child  and  unsophisticated 
reasoner,  which  a  little  surface  philosophy  renders  difficult  and 
often  undermines  and  practically  destroys,  which  again  much  and 
deep  philosophy  strengthens  and  developes,  so  in  their  own  way 

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ion.  25 

with  these  ideas.  No  one  indeed  can  help  acting  and  thinking,  as 
if  his  theories  of  causality  and  moral  responsibility  were  not  all 
that  they  should  be,  and  St.  Augustine  says  hcec  est  vis  verce 
Deitatis,  ut  nunquam  possit  penitus  abscondi.  The  idea  of  God  is  so 
natural  that  it  never  can  be  completely  extinguished. 

We  must  not  think  that  thinkers  are  necessarily  professed 
metaphysicians,  musing  on  abstractions  and  all  the  necessary  truths 
connected  with  every  mode  of  being.  We  have  a  famous  example 
of  this  in  one  of  the  greatest  geniuses  and  thinkers  of  the  age, 
Cardinal  Newman.  All  his  writings  are  redolent  of  the  full 
flavour  of  thoughtfulness,  throbbing  with  the  stimulating  power 
of  "  the  words  of  the  wise,  which  are  like  goads  and  like  nails 
deeply  fastened  in."  Writing  and  speaking  as  he  does  with  vast 
intellectual  power  and  vast  erudition  his  simple  language  conveys, 
such  wide-reaching  meaning  that  we  return  again  and  again  to  his 
poems,  and  sermons,  and  essays  with  renewed,  varying,  un- 
exhausted delight,  certain  each  time  to  see  what  we  never  saw 
before,  certain  to  take  away  fresh  energy  and  subject  for  thought. 
And  still  he  seems  to  make  it  his  deliberate  purpose  to  bring  what 
is  behind  the  mysterious  veil  as  far  as  possibly  can  be  done  into 
the  world  of  shapes  and  symbols,  which  the  intellectual  imagina- 
tion may  figure  to  itself  and  realize.  With  this  object  when 
treating  of  abstract  ideas  he  does  not  inquire  what  they  are  in 
themselves,  but  how  we  store  them  and  consider  them  in  the 
algebra  of  practical  thought  and  reasoning. 

Genius  is  a  large  word.  It  is  originality  of  conception  and 
expression.  To  some  it  comes  without  effort,  in  others  it  is  the 
fruit  of  "accumulated  reflection/'  Buffon  says: — "Le  genie, 
c'est  la  patience."  Newton,  when  asked  how  he  discovered  the 
universality  and  the  formula  of  the  law  of  gravitation,  replied, 
"  By  constantly  thinking  about  it."  I  remember  reading  in  a 
review  of  some  work  in  the  Times,  that  it  gave  signs  of  careful 
work,  of  the  exercise  of  that  infinite  capacity  for  taking  trouble 
which  is  but  another  name  for  genius  itself.  On  the  other  hand 
Shakespeare  is  said  to  give  us  his  own  method  of  writing  when 
describing  how  Hamlet  "devised  a  new  commission."  "Ere  I 
could  make  a  prologue  to  my  brains,  they  had  begun  the  play." 
Mozart  tells  us  when  a  little  boy  melodies  and  harmonies  he  had 
never  heard  came  surging  through  his  brain,  sounding  on  his 
mental  ear  unbidden.  Nevertheless  for  the  production  of  their 
balanced  work  Shakespeare  and  he  and  all  such  had  need  of  accu- 
mulated reflection,  of  trained  and  indomitable  will,  no  less  than  of 


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26  To  Cardinal  Newman. 

the  consciousness  of  genius  and  its  seasons  of  inspiration.  Talent 
is  receptive,  genius  is  creative*  Talent  takes  in  and  expresses  the 
minds  of  others.  Genius  throws  its  own  silver  light  on  all  it 
assimilates.  Cardinal  Newman  says  it  is  the  work  of  genius  to 
give  old  things  the  freshness  of  new,  as  well  as  to  produce  what 
is  wholly  new,  and  he  himself  is  great  in  both  performances.  For 
conveying  truths  that  will  work  on  the  mind  like  leaven,  an  ounce 
of  originality  or  genius  is  worth  a  ton  of  talent.  Often  too,  the 
simple  little  words  in  which  a  new  view  of  an  old  truth  is  con- 
veyed are  an  explosive  bullet  which  strikes  at  first  like  any  other 
message,  but  straightway  then  proceeds  to  shatter  preconceived 
notions  and  encrusted  prejudices.  Thoughtful  work,  though  not 
always  genius  as  commonly  understood,  is  fed  at  least  on  the  crumbs 
that  fall  from  its  table,  and  produces  analogous  effects.  Hence 
the  utility  even  of  spending  years  in  acquiring  the  habit  of 
reflection. 


TO  CARDINAL  NEWMAN. 
Born  in  Feb.  1801,  converted  in  Oct.  1845. 

QCARCE  forty  years  of  energising  brain 
L>     Had  set  thee  king  o'er  all  that  walk  sincere 
Without  the  fold.    A  loss  thou  didst  not  fear 
Of  kingship  seemed  thy  joining  us ;  a  gain 
Immense  it  proved :  then  thousands  felt  thy  reign, 
Now  loving  millions  hail  thee  Prince  most  dear, 
And  countless  alien  slaves  of  style  thy  peer 
In  soul-compelling  prose  have  sought  in  vain. 

These  other  forty  years  of  life  mature, 
How  vastly  nobler  in  their  silent  sway 

O'er  England's  heart  and  English-thinking  mind  ! 
Decoy  divine,  thy  deeds,  thy  words !  they  lure 
To  God.    The  «•  kindly  light "  that  led  thy  way 
Full  oft  through  them  on  searcher  true  hath  shined. 

Lewis  Drummond,  S  J. 
St  Boniface  College,  Manitoba. 


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(    27    ) 


THE  LAST  OP  THE  SHANACHIES. 

BT  MRS.   MORGAN   JOHN  o'cOKNELL* 

THE  teller  of  old  tales  was  a  recognized  character  in  Ireland 
long  ago.  When  the  bard  vanished  from  the  scene,  the 
thanachie  preserved  whatever  traditions  of  song  and  story  still 
linger  in  the  land. 

I  spent  an  hour  to-day  in  Kildysart  workhouse  with  the  last 
of  the  Shanachies,  blind  Teague  M'Mahon.  He  must  be  as  old 
as  the  century,  if  not  older ;  but  his  broad,  bent  figure  and  his 
ruddy  well-featured  face  are  still  full  of  vigour.  The  sightless 
eyes  are  closed,  the  white  hair  is  long  and  thick,  and  only  the 
wrinkled  hands,  somewhat  wasted  from  enforced  illness,  show  how 
old  the  ihanachie  must  be.  The  purely  rural  Workhouse  of  Kildy- 
sart, twelve  miles  from  any  large  town,  is  no  bad  place  of  shelter 
for  the  denizens  of  the  infirm  wards.  Blind  Teague  is  quite  a 
personage  among  them,  especially  as  a  kind  gentleman  sends  him 
newspapers  and  tobacco  all  the  way  from  Dublin,  and  it  is  known 
that  his  stories  have  been  written  down  in  books  and  his  name 
printed  by  the  learned  Dr.  Petrie.  He  is,  in  fact,  the  only 
thoroughly  happy  person  I  ever  saw  in  a  workhouse. 

Though  born  near  Kildysart,  Teague  hails  from  further  west 
in  Clare — from  Kilmurry  M'Mahon,  where  his  people  were  fol- 
lowers of  the  extinct  family  of  M'Mahons  of  Cloneena.  When 
Teague  grew  up,  he  took  service  with  one  Oonnell,  who,  besides 
his  farming,  worked  a  quarry  near  Money  Point,  not  very  far  from 
Kilrush.  This  Connell  was  brother  to  Peter  Connell,  a  famous  old 
hedge-schoolmaster,  and  a  very  shanachie  of  shanachies,  at  whose 
feet  the  sturdy  hewer  of  flagstones  sat.  Peter  was  an  old  man 
then  and  Teague  a  very  young  one :  so  the  gleaner  of  old  tradi- 
tions flourished  in  the  last  half  of  the  last  century. 

Teague  only  knows  a  limited  amount  of  English.  He  speaks 
like  a  foreigner,  with  difficulty  and  deliberation,  using  the  most 
dignified  idioms  and  with  a  tantalising  slowness  but  with  a 
wonderful  good  accent.  He  evidently  picked  it  up  late  in  life 
from  educated  people.  As  his  vocabulary  is  limited,  he  needs 
an  interpreter.  Once  he  turned  to  him  in  the  middle  of  a 
broken  sentence  of  his  halting  but  picturesque  English,  to  exclaim 
in  Irish :  "  Why  cannot  Morgan  John's  wife  speak  Irish  P  "   But 

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28  The  Last  of  the  Shanachies. 

this  was  said  more  in  sorrow  than  as  a  reproach  for  my  degeneracy. 
In  his  young  days  country  ladies  had  to  know  enough  of  Irish  to 
manage  the  large  number  of  servants  then  kept  when  the  killing 
and  curing  of  meat,  the  opening  and  carding  of  flax  and  wool, 
and  the  making  of  bread  and  cider,  had  all  to  be  carried  on 
at  home.  Except  silk,  broadcloth,  saddlery,  and  wine,  almost 
everything  was  produced  in  the  household. 

Blind  Teague,  partly  himself  in  English,  partly  in  Irish  to 
his  interpre  ter — told  me  of  Peter  Connell.  Now,  that  schoolmaster 
in  his  youth  not  only  crossed  into  Oonnaught  to  study  "  all  the 
old  talk,  and  the  old  stories  "  but  visited  every  part  of  Ireland  and 
even  spent  a  long  time  in  Scotland  from  whence  he  brought  back 
much  matter  of  song  and  story.  We  know  how  the  heroic  cycle 
of  the  Legends  of  Fionn  and  Cuohulain  and  the  doom  of  the 
Children  of  TJsnagh  live  in  Scotland  as  in  Tigh  Lore.  How 
many  years  Peter  Connell  spent  thus  I  cannot  tell,  but  Teague 
assured  me  "  he  spent  ten  years  in  Limerick  sitting  on  the  one 
bench  with  Dr.  O'Reardon,"  writing  it  all  down,  the  doctor  was  to 
have  found  the  means  of  publishing  the  book,  but  he  died,  and  the 
M.S.  was  still  unpublished  ;  and  Teague  often  saw  the  outside  of 
it  in  the  farm-house  where  he  worked  with  Peter's  brother  who 
sheltered  his  old  age. 

One  time  Peter  was  keeping  school  at  G-ower,  three  miles  from 
Kilrush,  when  he  gave  the  following  proof  of  his  acquirements. 
He  must  have  had  access  to  documents  quoted  by  the  late  learned 
Father  Shearman  in  the  pedigrees  in  his  Loca  Patriciana.  For  I 
identified  some  of  the  particulars  given  by  Teague,  but  he  does 
not  seem  to  have  informed  his  disciple  whence  he  derived  them. 
Peter  Connell's  aid  was  indirectly  sought  to  rescue  from  a  serious 
dilemma  one  Murtagh  M'Mahon  of  Cloneena,  of  whose  family 
Teague's  people  were  followers.  This  gentleman's  only  daughter, 
Margaret  M'Mahon,  was  married  to  the  O'Donoghue  of  the  Glen, 
the  great-grandfather  of  the  present  chieftain.  On  the  birth  of 
their  eldest  son  the  Kerry  gentlemen  is  reported  to  have  said  that, 
if  the  child's  lineage  on  the  mother's  side  were  equal  to  that  of 
the  O'Donoghues  few  Irish  noblemen  would  be  above  him.  These 
words  reached  Madam  O'Donoghue's  ears,  who  indignantly  appealed 
to  her  father  for  proofs  of  the  antiquity  of  her  own  family.  Now 
Murtagh  was  a  pleasant  gentleman  who  had  made  a  runaway  match 
in  1750  with  "  Fair  Mary  M'Donnell "  of  the  New  Hall  family— 
a  lady  whose  courage,  beauty,  and  charity  are  recorded  in  Irish 
verses  translated  by  Professor  O'Loony.    This  gentle  and  "  Fair 

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The  Last  of  the  Shanachies.  29 

Mary  M'Donnell "  and  stem  "Bed  Mary  M'Mahon"  the  terribly 
strong-minded  lady  of  Liemenegh  of  a  century  earlier  are  the 
idyllic  and  epic  heroines  of  West  Clare  tradition  even  yet.    Now 
the  chiefs  of  both  branches  of  the  M'Mahon  sept  had  disappeared  in 
the  long  struggles  culminating  in  Cromwell's  wars,  and  the  various 
junior  branches  who  held  on  to  their  own  castles  and  lands  were 
unable  to  claim  the  chief  tancy :  so,  Murtagh  was  sorely  puzzled. 
In  his  perplexity  he  appealed  to  a  certain  poet  of  his  clan, 
Michael,  the  son  of  Murrogh.     The  son  of  Murrogh  was  quite 
ready  to  chaunt  the  praises  of  his  race,  but  was  no  better  prepared 
than  Murtagh  himself  with  dry  genealogies.     So  Murtagh  then 
appealed  to  a  certain  learned  Irish  scholar  named  Considine,  who 
had  not  the  courage  to  avow  his  incompetence,  but  asked  for  time 
and  visited  the   hedge-school  where  Peter  Connell  held  sway. 
Peter,  who  told  Teague,  who  told  me,  knew  where  to  come  at 
the  required  information,  but  he  had  no  notion  of  telling  it  to  his 
brother  scholar.     He  raised  difficulties  and  said,  "I  could  gather 
it  in  ten  days  through  the  country  if  anyone  would  mind  the 
craythureens,"  i.e.  little  creatures.   Considine  volunteered ;  so  for 
ten  days  the  young  scholars  of  G-owran  passed  from  Peter  Connell's 
ferule,  while,  as  he  told  his  disciple,  he  ranged  the  country  far  and 
wide  gathering  the  links  of  the  pedigree.   I  suspect,  however,  he 
simply  got  at  the  papers  of  Hugh  M'Curtin,  who  died  in  1755, 
leaving  many  precious  documents  preserved  by  his  family  the 
hereditary  historians  of  Thomond.     This  last  of  their  line  lived 
by  teaching  a  small  school  near  Lisoanor  Bay.     Whether  Peter 
Connell  really  travelled  far  and  wide  as  he  stated,  or  simply  got  at 
M'Curtin's  clan  pedigrees,  he  presented  himself  not  to  his  brother 
pedagogue,  but  to  Murtagh  M'Mahon  of  Cloneena,  armed  with  a 
voluminous  document  to  which  he  casually  alluded  as  containing 
all  the  fathers  since  Brian  Boru,  but  only   the  mothers   sinoe 
one  Brian  M'Mahon  who  was  grandfather  to  Murtagh's  ancestor 
of  Cromwell's  time.    He  professed  his  willingnesss  to  produce 
sundry  more  details  if  required,  and  if  he  got  ten  times  more  and 
the  overhauling  of  O'Donoghue's  pedigrees,  he  professed  his  ability 
to  pick  out  any  number  of  errors  in  the  Kerry  document.     Con- 
sidering that  Irish  pedigrees  not  unfrequently  ran  up  to  very  near, 
the  days  of  the  Ark,  it  was  not  very  hard  to  pick  holes  in  the 
early  part  of  them.    Peter  Connell's  services  were  not  required 
either  for  the  dissection  of  the  claims  of  the  Kerry  Milesian  or 
the  further  addition  to  the  document  he  produced,  and  though 
Madam  O'Donoghue's  father  was  not  a  chief  himself,  Peter  Connell 
You  xiv.  No.  151.  r*    * 

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SO  The  Lattofthe  Bhanaehie*. 

succeeded  in  tracing  her  desoent  to  chiefs  enough  to  satisfy  even 
a  Ketryman's  wife.  What  reward  Peter  got,  though  it  was  an 
ample  one,  I  am  unable  to  state.  It  was  years  and  years  after,  in 
extreme  old  age,  that  he  sought  his  brother's  fireside  with  his  pre- 
cious volume  the  labour  of  a  lifetime.  Many  a  song,  and  many  a 
story,  and  many  a  queer  tradition  blind  Teague,  then  a  stalwart 
young  peasant,  learned  from  the  sage.  I  tested  several  of  them 
as  to  dates  and  names  by  looking  them  up  in  authentic  records, 
and  allowing  for  exaggeration  and  certain  dements  of  ghostly 
and  diabolical  nature,  nearly  all  the  people  were  living  at  the  times 
stated,  and  performed  the  feats  of  bloodshed,  love-making,  or 
drinking,  from  which  the  legends  spring. 

How  long  Peter  Connell  dwelt  with  his  nephew  I  do  not  quite 
know,  but  while  there  he  received  a  visit  from  a  gentleman  who 
offered  him  fifty  pounds  for  the  precious  book  he  had  been  so  long 
compiling  on  condition  it  should  bear  the  purchaser's  name — an 
offer  refused  with  scorn  by  the  poor  old  pedagogue,  saying, 
"  What  I  worked  at  these  thirty  years  I  will  not  part  with  it." 
He  was  kindly  treated  by  various  people,  and  had  many  learned 
books,  some  in  Irish,  from  which  he  derived  much  solace,  nor  was 
he  by  any  means  insensible  to  the  comforts  of  the  national  bever- 
age. He  was  a  tall,  gaunt,  swarthy  man,  large  limbed  and  blade- 
haired,  dark-eyed,  and  strongly  built,  like  nearly  all  his  family. 
I  asked  his  disciple  how  he  spoke  English — for  his  Irish  was  of 
course  perfect.  Teague' a  disciple's  reply  was  that  he  was  "  flat  in 
his  tongue  that  you  would  never  think  he  could  speak  a  word  of 
English."  To  this  most  accurate  description  of  a  strong  brogue 
Teague  added  all  good  Irish  speaking  men  were  of  necessity 
"  flat "  in  their  English,  i.e.,  spoke  it  with  broad  open  sounds — but 
that  Peter  Connell '  had '  every  word  of  both  Irish  and  English 
in  the  big  dictionary,  could  talk  fine  English,  and  once  when  his 
English  was  impugned,  swore,  the  king  himself  could  not  beat 
him  in  English  speech.  The  year  Teague  spent  at  Moneypoint 
quarrying  for  his  brother  was  "  the  year  whfen  the  oats  was  pulled 
out  of  the  ground,"  some  year  of  phenomenal  dryness,  before  the 
great  Clare]  election  of  1826.  Teague  was  strong  about  26,  but 
whether  it  was  apropos  of  the  great  election  of  O'Connell,  or  that 
he  himself  was  26  the  year  he  spent  under  the  rooftree  of  the 
Connells,  or  that  Peter  died  in  1826, 1  could  not  unravel.  Dates 
are  very  hard  things  to  get  interpreted.  At  all  events  some  time 
about  that  momentous  date  Peter  Connell  was  gathered  to  his 
fathers.    A  Protestant  clergyman,  the  Rev.  Mr.  Martin,  erected  a 


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The  Last  <tf  the  Shmachm.  31 

tombstone  over  his  remains,  and  the  old  Irish  scholar's  hones  sleep 
in  Barrane  churchyard,  quite  near  the  Colleen  Bawn's  grave. 
All  the  Gonnells  hut  one  had  voted  for  their  great  namesake,  and 
Peter's  own  nephew,  Andrew,  was  dispossessed  in  favour  of  the 
kinsman  who  had  pleased  the  Protestant  middleman  under  whom 
they  held.  Andrew  had  inherited  the  precious  volume,  and  kept 
it  though  he  sold  the  printed  books.  Seven  pounds'  worth  of  the 
Irish  ones  were  bought  by  the  O'Gorman  Mahon.  He  set  off  to 
the  Tralee  assizes  in  the  hopes  that  the  Liberator  would  buy  the 
MS.  book.  But  Andrew  at  home  and  abroad  had  a  weakness  for 
whiskey,  and  he  imbibei  freely  in  Tralee,  and  Was  finally  reduced 
to  pledge  the  precious  MS.  for  ten  shillings  to  pay  his  score. 

Someone,  however,  redeemed  it.  The  busy  Tribune  of  the 
people  had  no  time  to  examine  it  and  did  not  buy  it,  and  Andrew 
and  the  volume  returned  to  the  West.  He  eventually  sold  it, 
Teague  grandly  says  to  "  the  English  Government "  and  went  to 
America  on  the  proceeds.  Teague  returned  to  his  own  country, 
where  his  people  seem  to  have  been  cottier  tenants  working  as 
labourers  but  holding  some  land.  He  was  getting  on  so  well  he 
was  offered  to  have  his  holding  enlarged  to  twelve  acres,  when  his 
sight  failing,  he  gave  up  the  little  bit  he  had,  got  money  from  his 
landlord,  who  gave  the  little  bit  to  add  to  some  other  farm,  and 
went  to  Dublin.  He  recovered  his  sight  on  being  couched  for 
cataract,  and  made  a  fine  living  "  hauling  timber  out  of  the  bog." 
Bog  timber  is  most  valuable  for  roofing  purposes  and  greatly 
prized  even  now.  However,  the  wet  nature  of  his  work  affected 
his  eyes  again  and  he  returned  to  Dublin — this  time  doomed  to 
slow  and  gradual  extinction  of  sight. 

Teague  was  walking  one  day  outside  Dublin  talking  Irish  to 
another  man  when  he  was  stopped,  accosted  in  Irish,  and  asked 
where  he  was  from — Teague  immediately  named  his  remote  birth- 
place. "  I  am  a  Kilmurry  man  too,"  said  his  interlocutor  in  Irish, 
and  this  was  no  less  a  person  than  poor  Eugene  O'Curry,  probably 
the  best  Irish  scholar  of  his  day.  'The  Irish  professor  of  the 
Catholic  University  took  up  his  old  neighbour  and  was  good  to 
him,  and  made  him  known  to  richer  men  interested  in  Irish  lore, 
and  then  Teague  had  fine  times.  He  is  fully  convinced  that  but  for 
his  blindness  they  would  have  made  him  porter  in  the  Royal  Irish 
Academy.  He  knew  Dr.  Todd,  and  Dr.  Lyons,  and  "  Dr.  Stokes 
and  his  son  the  Councillor/'  and  the  late  Mr.  Pigott,  and  Mr. 
O'Mahony  who  keeps  him  in  newspapers  and  tobacco,  and  Mr. 
Joyce ;  but  his  man  is  "  The  Doctor,"  not  the  great  lexicographer 

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32  The  Last  of  the  Skanachies. 

but  gentle,  kindly  Dr.  l*etrie.  Many  a  tumbler  of  punch  has 
Teague  partaken  of  in  a  corner  of  his  diningroom  while  "  singing 
songs,  and  the  doctor  playing  them  on  the  fiddle/'  and  some 
other  tricean  "  taking  them  down."  Great  was  his  pleasure  when 
I  told  him  I  had  been  playing  over  some  of  them  the  other  day, 
and  he  says  Mr.  Joyce  has  "  translated  them  finely.'1 

Teague  looks  on  the  Royal  Irish  Academy  as  a  sacred  shrine, 
and  it  is  his  great  boast  that  his  was  the  only  single  knock  that 
was  ever  answered  at  that  learned  door.  Once  a  policeman  ordered 
him  off  the  steps  as  having  no  business  there.  The  indignant 
shanachie  responded :  "  It  is  I  that  have  business  there  with  the 
gentlemen,  and  not  the  likes  of  you  that  would  be  let  inside." 
Teague's  emphatic  rap  was  repeated  and  he  was  let  in,  in  the  very 
teeth  of  the  guardian  of  law  and  order. 

Long  after  his  various  patrons  had  got  all  the  songs  and  stories 
and  old  pedigrees  they  wanted,  they  continued  their  benefactions, 
and  Teague  says  he  never  wanted  for  anything  in  all  the  years 
*'  he  gave  in  Dublin."  But  when  he  got  very  old  he  felt  smother- 
ing in  the  city,  and  a  longing  came  on  him  to  go  back  to  the 
breezy  west  country.  He  was  so  old  his  people  were  scattered, 
but  in  Kildysart  workhouse  he  found  various  contemporaries, 
plenty  of  people  to  speak  Irish  to  him,  and  the  finest  breezy  air 
blowing  over  ridge  upon  ridge  of  rocky  hills,  and  coming  from 
the  Shannon,  five  miles  wide,  where  the  Fergus  joins  the  wider 
stream.  There  are  few  finer  inland  views  than  this  world  of 
waters,  the  near  hills  and  distant  mountains,  distant  plantations) 
and  the  many  isles,  one  with  a  ruined  abbey,  all  spread  out  before 
Kildysart  workhouse.  Teague's  sightless  eyes  cannot  profit  by 
these  beauties,  but  the  air  and  sunshine  reach  him,  and  the  last  of 
the  shanachies,  as  I  before  stated,  is  that  phenomenon,  a  thoroughly 
cheery  and  contented  pauper. 

If  any  gentle  reader  appreciates  the  old  Gaelic  tongue,  let  him 
add  to  its  votary's  happiness  by  a  little  more  tobacco.  Four  ounces 
go  so  cheaply  by  post ;  and  may  I  also  commend  to  him  the  grave 
and  respectable  old  man  who  interpreted  between  me  and  Blind 
Teague  M'Mahon  P 


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(    33  .) 


SIR  STEPHEN  DE  VERE'S  TRANSLATIONS  * 

HORACE  made  two  prophecies  concerning  the  fate  of  his  own 
writings  which  have  been  singularly  fulfilled.  The  first 
was  the  famous  ode  predicting  their  immortality.  He  had  achieved, 
he  proudly  said,  a  monument  more  durable  than  bronze,  and  loftier 
than  the  royal  height  of  the  pyramids;  a  work  which  bade 
defiance  to  wasting  rain  and  tempest,  to  the  innumerable  series 
of  years  and  the  flight  of  time.  The  other  was  that  they  should 
fill  the  lowlier  function  of  being  taught  by  the  faltering  lips  of 
old  age  to  boys  in  suburban  schools,  f  How  soon  this  latter  pre- 
diction was  verified  we  learn  from  Juvenal  who,  in  less  than  a 
century  afterwards,  speaks  of  both  Horace  and  Virgil  as  school- 
books.  This  doom  of  great  writers  has  been  often  mourned  over. 
It  has  seemed  like  setting  the  gallant  steed  to  drag  ignoble  wheels 
when  the  sublime  language  of  a  poet  has  to  be  declined  and  parsed 
and  crammed  into  unwilling  minds,  so  as  to  be  associated  after- 
wards in  memory  with  mental,  and,  it  may  be,  with  corporal 
indignities.  A  poet  amongst  the  highest  in  fame  and  genius 
expresses  this  sentiment  towards  Horace  in  resonant  Spenserian 
verse,  recording  his  abhorrence  of 

Aught  that  recalls  the  daily  drug  which  turned 

My  sickening  memory,  and  though  time  hath  taught 

My  mind  to  meditate  what  then  it  learned, 

Tet  such  the  fixed  inveteracy  wrought 

By  the  impatience  of  my  early  thought, 

That  with  the  freshness  wearing  out  before 

My  mind  could  relish  what  it  might  have  sought 

If  free  to  choose,  I  cannot  now  restore 

Its  health,  but  what  I  then  detested  still  abhor. 

Then  farewell,  Horace,  whom  I  hated  so, 
Not  for  thy  fault  but  mine,!  &c,  &c 

And  it  has  been  asked  what  relish  we  should  have  of  Hamlet 
or  Lear  if  they  were  made  the  staple  of  a  daily  verbal  exercise 
before  the  mind  approached  the  capability  of  comprehending  their 

*  Translations  from  Horace,  &c.,  by  Sir  Stephen  de  Vere,  Bart.    London : 
George  Bell  and  Sons.    Dublin :  M.  EL  Gill  and  Son. 
+  Hoc  quoque  te  manet  ut  pueros  elements  docentem 

Occupet  extremis  in  vicis  balba  senectus.— Epist.  I.,  20. 
t  Ohilde  Harold,  Canto  III.  j 


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34  Sir  Stephen  de  Vere's  Translations. 

greatness.  Yet,  notwithstanding  all  these  protests,  the  judgment 
of  mankind  for  eo  many  centuries  has  been  clearly  right.  Putting 
aside  the  primary  argument  that  a  language  is  best  taught  from 
its  best  writers,  it  is  certain  that,  if  the  great  authors  of  antiquity 
were  not  read  at  school  and  college,  they  would  run  very  little 
chance  of  being  read  at  all,  save  by  an  extremely  select  few.  The 
majority  of  men  drop  their  classical  reading  altogether  when  they 
embark  in  active  life ;  and  even  of  those 

qtribua  arte  benign& 
Et  meliore  luto  finxit  prscordia  Titan,* 

there  are  few  whose  taste  leads  them  to  range  outside  the  circle  of 
authors  with  whom  they  had  become  familiar  in  their  youth.  For 
these  they  may  attain  a  higher  and  still  higher  appreciation  as 
their  taste,  culture,  and  imagination  expand.  The  mechanical 
acquisition  of  their  boyhood  becomes  thus  instrumental  in  leading 
to  an  enlarged  and  intimate  sympathy  and  delight.  Let  us  then 
be  thankful  that  the  fate  which  Horace  playfully  dreaded  of 
becoming  a  daily  lesson  in  the  schools  has  really  befallen  him. 

Of  him,  almost  beyond  all  other  authors,  it  may  be  said  that  he 
is  the  eternal  temptation  and  despair  of  translators.  How  great 
is  the  temptation  may  be  gleaned  from  the  multitude  of  aspirants 
from  the  sixteenth  century  down.  A  few  years  ago  Mr.  Charles 
Cooper  published  a  collection  of  translations  of  the  Odes  of 
Horace  drawn  from  different  sources  early  and  late,  and  the 
separate  names  number  about  sixty.  Towards  the  end  of  the 
seventeenth  century  Creech  published  a  translation  of  the  entire 
of  the  poet's  works,  odes,  satires,  and  epistles,  In  the  course  of 
the  last  century  Dr.  Francis,  the  father  of  the  famous  Sir  Philip 
Francis,  gave  to  the  world  another  complete  translation ;  and,  be 
it  said  without  disparagement,  amongst  those  who  have  attempted 
that  most  arduous  of  tasks,  Dr.  Francis  may  still  hold  up  his 
head.  In  our  own  day  several  distinguished  men  have  entered  the 
same  lists,  among  whom  we  will  only  name  the  late  Professor 
Conington  and  Sir  Theodore  Martin. 

There  are  many  who  do  not  deem  the  odes  of  Horace  the 
highest  achievement  of  his  genius  and  who  prize  the  epistles 
before  all  his  works.  The  latter  with  their  mature  yet  playful 
philosophy,  the  matchless  knowledge  of  the  world  and  the  ways  of 
men  which  they  exhibit,  their  inimitable  art  of  narrative,  their 

•  "  Whose  heartr  the  divine  power  has  formed  with  benign  art  and  of 
better  clay." 


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Sir  Stephen  de  JW«  Translations.  95 

strong  and  abiding  good  sense  conveyed  with  singular  urbanity 
and  polish  as  well  as  .ease  and  graoe  of  diction,  have  an  undefinable 
and  imperishable  charm.  When  P&re  Hardouin  broached  his 
famous  paradox  that  almost  all  the  great  works  which  we  prize  as 
classics  were  forgeries  of  mediaeval  monks,  one  of  the  few  excep- 
tions he  made  was  the  Epistles  of  Horace.  But  the  poet's  own 
prevision  of  immortality  rested  on  the  Carmina — on  his  being  the 
first  to  attune  the  Eolian  lyre  to  Italian  strains.  He  boasts  to  be 
first,  princepz,  in  order  of  time ;  he  has  remained  not  only  first  but 
without  a  second  in  order  of  supremacy.  Of  all  the  lyrics  in  the 
Latin  tongue,  alcaics,  sapphics,  asclepiads,  which  have  been  pro- 
duced either  in  the  decline  of  Roman  literature  or  since  the  revival 
of  letters  by  Latin  versifiers  in  Italy,  Germany,  France,  and 
England — many  of  them  correct,  tasteful,  and  elevated,  many 
possessing  tenderness  and  vigour,  is  there  even  one  which  the 
world  at  large  has  accepted  and  agreed  to  place  side  by  side  with 
one  of  the  great  lyrics  of  Horace  f  No  doubt  the  Odes  taken  as 
a  whole  show  much  and  inevitable  inequality.  Many  of  them 
are  dictated  by  trivial  and  transient  themes,  are  love-songs  or 
bacchanalian  songs ;  and  one  book,  that  of  the  Epodes,  said  to 
have  been  written  in  his  youth,  contains  compositions  utterly  at 
variance  with  the  good  taste  and  dignity  of  thought  and  language 
which  distinguish  his  maturer  works,  But  the  heroic  odes  which 
have  become  the  favourites  of  mankind,  stand  unapproached  in 
their  excellence  by  any  subsequent  Latin  lyrics. 

This  excellence,  into  the  causes  and  characteristics  of  which 
it  would  be  far  beyond  our  present  task  to  enter  and  which  has 
been  the  theme  of  so  much  Horatian  criticism,  forms  the  shoal  of 
the  translator  as  it  is  his  lure.  The  "  curious  felicity ;"  the  concen- 
trated meaning  to  which  the  Latin  language  lends  itself,  the  wealth 
of  apposite  and  never-inflated  illustration,  the  supreme  skill  by 
which  so  much  is  left  unsaid  which  a  lesser  artist  would  be  sure  to 
say,  and  the  Roman  character  and  Roman  patriotism  which  breathe 
throughout — how  are  all  these  traits  and  lineaments  to  be  trans- 
ferred into  another  tongue  for  the  delight  of  men  of  a  distant  age 
and  clime  P 

In  speaking  thus  we  have  in  view  a  work  assuming  to  be  a 
translation  of  the  Odes  as  a  whole.  In  such  an  undertaking  no 
success  has  been  yet  achieved,  and  we  doubt  if  it  could  be  possibly 
achieved  even  by  a  poet  of  a  high  order.  Far  be  it  from  us  to 
suggest  that  translations  of  great  beauty  and  spirit  as  well  as  of  a 
genuine  fidelity  to  the  original  may  not  be  made  of  particular 


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88  Sir  Stephen  de  jWs  Translations. 

odes.  If  we  desired  a  refutation  of  such  an  idea,  we  need  not  go 
farther  than  the  little  volume  which  forms  our  theme.  But  what 
we  say  with  full  conviction  is  that  any  man,  however  gifted,  who 
lays  before  him  as  his  achievement  to  translate  all  the  odea  of 
Horace  will  soon  find  his  genius  grow  barren  and  commonplace 
from  the  mechanical  straits  and  contrivances  into  which  he  will  be 
inevitably  driven. 

Or,  to  put  the  same  thought  into  other  words,  no  man  ought 
to  attempt  a  lyric  of  Horace  unless  he  feels  that  he  cannot  help  it ; 
unless  the  beauty  of  the  original  so  sinks  into  his  mind,  so  per- 
vades his  imagination,  so  haunts,  and  dominates,  and  possesses 
him,  that,  almost  as  it  were  in  his  own  despite,  a  reproduction  in 
some  lyrical  measure  and  idiom  of  his  own  language  breaks  forth 
from  his  lips  and  pen,  to  be  wrought  with  great  and  necessary 
labour  into  the  desired  perfection.  Once  more,  in  briefer  words,  the 
translation  of  an  inspired  original  needs  to  be  itself  inspired. 

Sir  Stephen  de  Yere — the  son  of  a  poet-sire  and  the  elder 
brother  of  a  still  better  known  poet,  of  whom  it  has  been  truly 
said  that  his  life  has  been  "  devoted  in  equal  measure  to  his 
faith,  his  country,  and  his  muse" — is  himself  one  in  whom  the 
hereditary  faculty  of  poetry  has  not,  as  in  the  case  of  his  brother 
Aubrey,  become  the  vocation  and  devotion  of  a  lifetime,  but  has 
been  made  manifest  in  verse,  whether  original  or  translated,  of 
rare  delicacy  and  polish,  feeling  and  refinement. 

The  volume  before  us  contains  translations  of  half  a  score  of 
the  odes,  each  of  the  originals  a  masterpiece,  and  the  translations 
fulfilling  the  ideal  we  have  endeavoured  to  indicate,  in  this  respect 
that  the  Latin  poem  had  through  genuine  admiration  and  reverence 
become  fused  and  molten  in  the  mind  of  the  translator  and  flowed 
from  thence  into  the  form  and  symmetry  of  English  lyric  ?erse. 
This  result  Sir  Stephen  de  Yere  considers  incompatible  with  a 
merely  literal  and  verbal  rendering.  He  cites  on  this  point  the 
judgment  of  Boileau  who  says  : 

"To  translate  servilely  into  modern  language  an  ancient 
author  phrase  by  phrase  and  word  by  word  is  preposterous; 
nothing  can  be  more  unlike  the  original  than  such  a  copy.  It 
is  not  to  show,  it  is  to  disguise  the  author ;  and  he  who  has 
known  him  in  this  dress  would  not  know  him  in  his  own.  A 
good  writer,  instead  of  taking  this  inglorious  and  unprofitable 
task  upon  him  would  .  .  .  rather  imitate  than  translate,  rather 
emulate  than  imitate.  He  will  transfuse  the  sense  and  spirit 
of  the  original  into  his  own  work,  and  will  endeavour  to  write  as 

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Sir  Stephen  de  VerS*  Translation*.  87 

the  ancient  author  would  have  written,  had  he  writ  in  the  same 
language/9 

To  this  weighty  opinion  may  be  added  that  of  Chapman,  the 
•translator  of  Homer,  who  urges  that  "  it  is  the  part  of  every 
knowing  and  judicious  interpreter  not  to  follow  the  number  and 
order  of  words  but  the  material  things  themselves,  and  sentences 
to  weigh  diligently,  and  to  clothe  and  adorn  them  with  words,  and 
such  a  style  and  form  of  oration  as  are  most  apt  for  the  language 
into  which  they  are  converted." 

The  typical  instance  of  absolutely  literal  translation  is  Milton's 
version  of  the  song  "  To  Pyrrha :" 

What  slender  youth  bedewed  with  liquid  odours 
Courts  thee  in  roses  in  some  pleasant. cave  P 
Pyrrha,  for  whom  bind'st  thou 
In  wreaths  thy  golden  hair  P 

Plain  in  thy  neatness,  O  how  oft  shall  he 
On  faith  and  changed  gods  complain,  and  seas 

Bough  with  black  winds  and  storms 

Unwonted  shall  admire,  &c.,  &c. 

A  rendering  like  this  may  give  pleasure  to  scholars  who  have 
the  original  line  by  line  in  their  memories,  but  to  what  mere 
English  reader  does  it  not  seem  stiff  and  stiltified,  the  effusion 
of  a  pedant  rather  than  a  lover  P  Or  take  Professor  Conington, 
whose  translation  of  Virgil,  though  very  un- Yirgilian,  has  yet  a 
good  deal  of  the  freedom  and  ring  of  one  of  Scott's  metrical 
romances.  He  has  translated  Horace  upon  system— take  his 
version  of  the  ode,  "  Laudabunt  alii," 

Let  others  Rhodes  or  Mitylene  sing 

Or  Ephesus,  or  Corinth  set  between 
Two  seas,  or  Thebes  or  Delphi  for  its  king 

Each  famous,  or  Thessalian  Tempo  green. 

There  are  who  make  chaste  Pallas*  virgin  tower 

The  daily  burden  of  unending  song 
And  search  for  wreaths  the  olive's  rifled  bower ; 

The  praise  of  Juno  sounds  from  many  a  tongue,  &c,  &c. 

Now,  with  all  respect  for  an  eminent  scholar  now  departed,  is  not 
such  verse  almost  enough  to  set  the  teeth  on  edge  P  If  out  of 
the  Latin  lyric  an  English  lyric  cannot  be  produced  with  lyric 
fire  and  movement,  better  let  it  alone  and  be  content  with  Smart's 
translation  in  bald  prose.     Sir  Stephen  de  Vere  is  therefore  justi- 

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8Q  Sir  Stephen  de  Veri%  Tramlatiom* 

fied  in  his  protest  against  servile  fidelity  to  the  letter,  and  justified 
all  the  more  by  the  examples  he  has  given  of  fidelity  to  the  mean* 
ing  and  spirit  of  his  author. 

We  have  far  too  long  detained  our  readers  from  the  opportu- 
nity of  judging  for  themselves  as  to  the  merits  of  Sir  Stephen  de 
Vere's  reproductions  of  Horace,  and  we  have  to  consider  a  little  as 
to  the  best  means  of  doing  so.  To  give  isolated  passages  and 
stanzas  would  be  unjust  both  to  author  and  translator.  The  odea 
of  Horace  are  distinguished  by  a  pervading  unity  of  conception. 
The  unity  is  of  a  kind  which  m&y  be  exemplified  by  the  type  of 
a  perfect  sonnet.  Starting  with  one  great  idea  and  from  thence 
rising  to  an  apposite  simile  or  illustration,  or  some  historical  or 
legendary  parallel,  it  ends  there,  leaving  the  link  which  binds  it 
with  the  original  theme  not  expressed  but  to  be  added  mentally 
by  the  reader.  As  Keats  begins  with  Chapman's  Homer,  and  ends 
with  Nunez  gazing  on  the  Pacific 

"  Silent  upon  a  peak  in  Darien  * — 

so  is  the  conclusion  of  one  of  these  odes.  But  we  must  hear  what 
Sir  Stephen  de  Yere  himself  says  in  his  preface : — 

"  Horace,  in  his  Lyrics,  has  two  distinct  styles.  His  shorter  poems  are  light, 
graceful,  and  easily  understood.  They  are  in  fact  songs  rather  than  odes,  and 
remind  us  of  the  tenderness  and  simplicity  of  our  great  Scottish  lyrist,  Burns. 
The  heroic  Odes  are  of  a  very  different  class.  They  seem  to  have  been  written 
with  the  intention  of  effecting  some  large  social  or  political  purpose,  or  of 
developing  some  principle  of  moral  philosophy.  A  thread  of  consecutive  pur- 
pose, often  obscure,  runs  through  each.  The  first  duty  of  the  translator,  that 
which  he  owes  to  the  original  author,  is  to  assure  himself  of  the  scope  of  this 
veiled  purpose ;  his  second,  which  he  owes  to  his  readers,  is  to  frame  his  render- 
ing so  as  to  present  to  English  ears  what  Horace  intended  to  present  to  the 
Romans.  In  the  latter  lies  his  main  difficulty.  If  by  inserting  words  under- 
stood, though  not  actually  expressed  in  the  original,  he  attempts  to  make  clear 
the  object  and  full  meaning  of  the  whole ;— if  he  seeks  to  elucidate  what  to 
English  ears  may  be  obscure,  and  to  complete  and  transfuse  the  thoughts  and 
images  which  though  only  half  developed  were  intelligible  to  the  Roman,  he  is 
taxed  with  presumption,  he  is  called  a  paraphraser,  not  a  translator.  To  be 
true  to  the  spirit  he  must  claim  liberty  as  regards  the  letter.  The  true  canon  of 
poetical  translation—that  which  such  men  as  Dryden  and  Shelley  understood 
and  obeyed — is  to  lay  before  the  reader  the  thoughts  that  breathe  in  the  original, 
to  add  nothing  that  is  not  in  entire  harmony  with  them  in  such  language  as 
the  author  would  have  employed  if  writing  in  the  tongue  of  those  who 
have  to  read  tne  translation. " 

We  could  not,  as  we  said,  do  justice  to  Sir  Stephen  de  Yere  by 
mere  extracts,  and  yet,  when  we  come  to  lay  before  our  readers 
some  of  the  entire  odes,  we  are  puzzled  by  the  choice,  all  of  them 

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.  Sir  Stephen  de  Vere's  Translations.  89 

seem  to  us  to  be  of  such  excellence.  We  will,  however,  confine 
ourselves  to  three.  The  first  is  the  magnificent  address  in  which 
the  poet  cites  the  martyr-spirit  of  Regulus  as  a  protest  against  an 
ignominious  treaty  with  the  Parthians,  the  conquerora  of  Grassus. 

TO  AUGUSTUS. 
Ccdo  tanantem  credidimu*  Jovem.— Book  IIL  Ode  5. 

Jove  rules  the  skies,  his  thunder  wielding : 
Augustus  Caesar,  thou  on  earth  shall  be 

Enthroned  a  present  Deity; 
Britons  and  Parthian  hordes  to  Rome  their  proud  necks  yielding. 

Woe  to  the  Senate  that  endures  to  see 

(O  ore  extinct  of  old  nobility  I) 

The  soldier  dead  to  honour  and  to  pride 
Ingloriously  abide 

Grey-headed  mate  of  a  Barbarian  bride, 

Freeman  of  Rome  beneath  a  Median  King. 

Woe  to  the  land  that  fears  to  fling 

Its  curse,  not  ransom,  to  the  slave 

Forgetful  of  the  shield  of  Mars, 

Of  Vesta's  unextinguished  flame, 

Of  Roman  garb,  of  Roman  name ; 

The  base  unpitied  slave  who  dares 

From  Rome  his  forfeit  life  to  crave : 
In  vain; — Immortal  Jove  still  reigns  on  high  : 
Still  breathes  in  Roman  hearts  the  spirit  of  Liberty 

With  warning  voice  of  stern  rebuke 

Thus  Regulus  the  Senate  shook : 

He  saw,  prophetic,  in  far  days  to  come, 

The  heart  corrupt,  and  future  doom  of  Rome. 

*'  These  eyes,"  he  cried,  "  these  eyes  have  seen 

Unbloodied  swords  from  warriors  torn, 

And  Roman  standards  nailed  in  scorn 

On  Punic  shrines  obscene ; 
Have  seen  the  hands  of  freeborn  men 
Wrenched  back ;  th'  unbarred,  unguarded  gate 
And  fields  our  war  laid  desolate 
By  Romans  tilled  again. 

What!  will  the  gold-enfranchised  slave 
Return  more  loyal  and  more  brave  P 

Ye  heap  but  loss  on  crime ! 
The  wool  that  Cretan  dyes  distain 
Can  ne'er  its  virgin  hue  regain  j 
And  valour  fallen  and  disgraced 
Revives  not  in  a  coward  breast 

Its  energy  sublime. 


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40  Sir  Stephen  de  Vereh  Translation*. 

The  stag  released  from  hunter's  toils 
From  the  dread  sight  of  maa  recoils, 
Is  he  more  brave  than  when  of  old 
He  ranged  his  forest  free  ?    Behold 
In  him  your  soldier!    He  has  knelt 
To  faithless  foes ;  he  too  has  felt 
The  knotted  cord;  and  crouched  beneath 
Fear,  not  of  shame,  but  death. 

He  sued  for  peace  tho'  vowed  to  war 
Will  such  men,  girt  in  arms  once  more, 
Dash  headlong  on  the  Punic  shore  ? 
No !  they  will  buy  their  craven  lives 
With  Punic  scorn  and  Punic  gyves. 
O  mighty  Carthage,  rearing  high 
Thy  fame  upon  our  infamy, 
A  city,  aye,  an  empire  built 
On  Roman  ruins,  Roman  guilt  1" 

From  the  chaste  kiss,  and  wild  embrace 
Of  wife  and  babes  he  turned  his  face, 

A  man  self-doomed  to  die : 
Then  bent  his  manly  brow,  in  scorn, 
Resolved,  relentless,  sad,  but  stern, 

To  earth,  all  silentlyl; 
Till  counsel  never  heard  before 
Had  nerved  each  weavering  Senator ; — 
Till  flushed  each  cheek  with  patriot  shame, 
And  surging  rose  the  loud  acclaim ; — 
Then,  from  his  weeping  friends,  in  haste, 
To  exile  and  to  death  he  passed. 

He  knew  the  tortures  that  Barbaric  hate 
Had  stored  for  him.    Exulting  in  his  fate 

With  kindly  hand  he  waved  away 

The  crowds  that  strove  his  course  to  stay. 
He  passed  from  all,  as  when  in  days  of  yore. 

His  judgment  given,  thro'  client  throngs  he  pressed 

In  glad  Venafrian  fields  to  seek  his  rest, 
Or  Greek  Tarentum  on  th'  Ionian  shore. 

The  next  is  the  invitation  to  Maecenas,  in  which  the  translator 
has  the  difficult  task  of  competing  with  Dry  den.  That  parts  of 
Dryden's  paraphrase  are  splendidly  executed  no  one  can  deny,  but 
it  is  deformed  with  vulgarities  about  "  the  new  Lord  Mayor  "  and 
other  temporary  trivialities  which  Dryden  dragged  in  after  his 
accustomed  fashion.  Sir  Stephen  de  Yere's  version  is  throughout 
as  dignified  as  it  is  musical. 


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(Jir  Stephen  de  Vere's  Translation*.  4i 

TO  MAECENAS. 

Tyrrkena  regum  progenies  tibi.— Book  III,  Ode  29. 

MtBcenas,  thou  whose  lineage  springs 

From  old  Etruria's  kings 
dome  to  my  humble  dwelling.    Haste ; 

A  cask  unbroached  of  mellow  wine 
Awaits  thee,  roses  interlaced, 

And  perfumes  pressed  from  nard  divine. 
Leave  Tibur  sparkling  with  its  hundred  rills  ; 

Forget  the  sunny  slopes  of  iEsul®, 
And  rugged  peaks  of  Telagonian  hills 

That  frown  defiance  on  the  Tuscan  sea. 
Forego  vain  pomps,  nor  gaze  around 

From  the  tall  turret  of  thy  palace  home 
On  crowded  marts,  and  summits  temple-crowned, 

The  smoke,  the  tumult,  and  the  wealth  of  Rome. 
Gome,  loved  Maecenas,  come  ! 

How  oft  in  lowly  cot 
Uncurtained,  nor  with  Tyrian  purple  spread, 
Has  weary  State  pillowed  its  aching  head 
And  smoothed  its  wrinkled  brow,  all  cares  forgot  P 
Gome  to  my  frugal  feast,  and  share  my  humble  lot. 

For  now  returning  Oepheus  shoots  again 

His  fires  long-hid ;  now  Procyon  and  the  star 

Of  the  untamed  Lion  blaze  amain :  * 
Now  the  light  vapours  in  the  heated  air 

Hang  quivering :  now  the  shepherd  leads 

His  panting  flock  to  willow-bordered  meads 

By  river  banks,  or  to  those  dells 

Remote,  profound,  where  rough  Silvanus  dwells, 

Where  by  mute  margins  voiceless  waters  creep, 

And  the  hushed  Zephyrs  sleep. 

Too  long  by  civil  cares  opprest, 
Snatch  one  short  interval  of  rest, 
Nor  fear  lest  from  the  frozen  North 
Don's  arrowed  thousands  issue  forth, 
Or  hordes  from  realms  by  Cyrus  won, 
Or  Scythians  from  the  rising  sun. 

Around  the  future  Jove  has  cast 

A  veil  like  night ;  he  gives  us  power 
To  see  the  present  and  the  past, 

But  kindly  hides  the  future  hour, 
And  smiles  when  man  with  daring  eye 
Would  pierce  that  dread  futurity. 


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42  Sit  Stephen  de  Vene'a  Tramtofom$. 

Wisely  and  justly  guide  thy  present  state 
Life's  daily  duty :  the  dark  future  flows 
Like  some  broad  river,  now  in  calm  repose, 
Gliding  untroubled  to  the  Tyrrhene  shore, 

Now  by  fierce  floods  precipitate, 

And  on  its  frantic  bosom  barring 

Homes,  herds,  and  flocks, 

Drowned  men,  and  loosened  rocks; 
Uprooted  trees  from  groaning  forests  tearing ; 
Tossing  from  peak  to  peak  the  sullen  waters'  roar. 

Blest  is  the  man  who  dares  to  say, 
11  Lord  of  myself,  I've  lived  to-day : 
To-morrow  let  the  Thunderer  roll 
Storm  and  thick  darkness  round  the  pole, 
Or  purest  sunshine :  what  is  past 
Unchanged  for  evermore  stall  last 
Nor  man,  nor  [Jove's  resistless  sway 
Can  blot  the  record  of  one  vanished  day." 

Fortune,  capricious,  faithless  blind, 

With  cruel  joy  her  pastime  plays 

Exalts,  enriches,  and  betrays, 
One  day  to  me,  anon  to  others  kind. 

I  praise  her  while  she  stays  ;— 
But  when  she  shakes  her  wanton  wing 
And  soars  aloft,  her  gifts  to  earth  I  fling, 
And  wrapped  in  Virtue's  mantle  live  and  die 
Content  with  dowerless  poverty. 

When  the  tall  ship  with  bending  mast 
Reels  to  the  fury  of  the  blast, 
The  merchant  trembles,  and  deplores 
Not  his  own  fate,  but  buried  stores 
From  Cyprian  or  Phoenician  shores ; — 
He  with  sad  vows  and  unavailing  prayer 

Rich  ransom  proffers  to  the  angry  gods : 
I  stand  erect :  no  groans  of  mine  shall  e'er 

Affront  the  quiet  of  those  blest  abodes : 

My  light  unburthened  skiff  shall  sail 

Safe  to  the  shore  before  the  gale, 
While  the  twin  sons  of  Leda  point  the  way. 
And  smooth  the  billows  with  benignant  ray. 

The  last  which  we  can  cite  is  the  ode  to  Grosphus,  in  which 
the  thoughtful  philosophy  of  the  poet,  his  abiding  sense  of  the 
brevity  of  life,  of  the  unsatisfying  and  tainted  nature  of  worldly 
aspirations,  and  of  the  blessedness  of  peace  in  a  humble  condition,  are 
strikingly  brought  out — ideas  which  have  often  made  Horace 
dear  to  the  Christian  reader. 


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Sir  Stephen  de  Veris  Translations.  48 

TO  GROSPHUS- 

When  the  pale  moon  is  wrapt  in  dond, 

And  mistB  the  guiding  stars  enshroud; 

When  on  the  dark  JEgasan  ahore 

The  bunting  surges  flash  and  roar ; 

The  mariner  with  toil  opprest 

Sighs  for  his  home,  and  prays  for  rest: 

80  pray  the  warrior  sons  of  Thrace; 
So  pray  the  quivered  Mede's  barbaric  raee : 

Grosphus,  not  gold  nor  gems  can  buy 
That  peace  which  in  brave  souls  finds  sanctuary; 

Nor  Consul's  pomp,  nor  treasured  store, 

Can  one  brief  moment's  rest  impart, 

Or  chase  the  cares  that  hover  o'er 

The  fretted  roof,  the  wearied  heart 

Happy  is  he  whose  modest  means  afford 

Enough — no  more:  upon  his  board 
Th'  ancestral  salt  vase  shines  with  lustre  clear, 
Emblem  of  olden  faith  and  hospitable  cheer: 
Nor  greed,  nor  doubt,  nor  envy's  curses  deep 

Disturb  his  innocent  sleep. 
Why  cast  on  doubtful  issues  life's  short  years? 
Why  hope  that  foreign  suns  can  dry  our  tears  P 

The  Exile  from  his  country  flies, 
Not  from  himself,  nor  from  his  memories. 

Care  climbs  the  trireme's  brazen  sides; 
Care  with  the  serried  squadron  rides ; 
Outstrips  the  cloud-compelling  wind 
And  leaves  the  panting  stag  behind : 
But  the  brave  spirit,  self-possest. 
Tempers  misfortune  with  a  jest, 
With  joy  th'  allotted  gift  receives, 
The  gift  denied,  to  others_frankly  leaves. 

A  chequered  life  the  gods  bestow  • 
Snatched  by  swift  fate  Achilles  died : 
Time-worn  Tithonus,  wasting  slow, 
Long  wept  a  death  denied : 
A  random  hour  may  toss  to  me 
Some  gifts,  my  friend,  refused  to  thee. 

A  hundred  flocks  thy  pastures  roam : 
Large  herds,  deep-uddered,  low  around  thy  home 

At  the  retclose  of  day : 

The  steed  with  joyous  neigh 
Welcomes  thy  footstep :  robes  that  shine 
Twice  dipt  in  Afric  dyes  are  thine. 


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44  Everyday  Thoughts. 

To  me  kind  Fate  with  bounteous  hand 

Grants  other  boon ;  a  spot  of  land, 

A  faint  flame  of  poetic  fire, 

A  breath  from  the  JBolian  lyre, 

An  honest  aimf  a  spirit  proud 

That  loves  the  tiuth9  and  scorns  the  crowd. 

The  success  which  has  crowned  Sir  Stephen  de  Vere's  efforts 
in  these  few  odes  makes  us  naturally  crave  for  some  others  done 
in  the  same  fashion,  such  others  as  he  may  equally  have  at  heart. 
We  own  we  should  rejoice  to  see  the  Archytas,  and  the  Quakm 
ministrum  fulminis  alitem  in  Sir  Stephen  de  Vere's  rendering. 


EVERYDAY     THOUGHTS. 

BY  MRS.   FRANK   PENTRILL. 

No.  X — Anobls  Unawares. 

MY  friend  and  I  were  sitting  on  the  lawn,  beneath  the  trees ; 
enjoying  that  mixture  of  tea  and  talk,  so  dear  to  the 
feminine  heart,  and  so  sneered  at  by  the  lords  of  creation — 
though  I  notice  that  these  latter  enjoy  both  tea  and  talk  quite  as 
much  as  we  do ;  and  it  is  certain  that  our  husbands  always  drifted, 
towards  four  o'clock,  into  the  little  harbour  of  refuge,  where  we 
took  shelter  from  the  heat  and  fatigue  of  the  autumn  afternoons. 

We  had  talked  of  many  things  in  lazy  desultory  fashion,  and 
were  now  discussing  my  friend's  German  governess — a  square- 
headed,  square-shouldered,  square-minded  daughter  of  the  Father- 
land, whom  one  could  not  lopk  at  without  thinking  of  butterbrot 
and  boiled  veal,  and  knitted  stockings,  and  the  many  other  useful 
but  unattractive  things,  beloved  by  our  Teutonic  cousins. 

"  A  worthy  creature,"  my  friend,  Mrs.  Leaderly,  was  saying, 
"  a  worthy  creature,  as  patient  as  Griselda,  and  as  truthful  as  a 
photograph." 

"  And  almost  as  ugly,"  put  in  Mr.  Leaderly,  Botto  voce. 

"  Excellent  for  the  children  while  they  are  young,19  continued 
Mrs.  Leaderly,"  but  when  they  grow  older,  they  will  require  some 


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Everyday  Thoughts.  45 

one  better  fitted  to  form  their  characters — someone  who  will  teach 
them  to  love  great  and  noble  things.  Now,  poor  Fraulein  is  a 
mere  machine — without  a  spark  of  feeling  or  sensibility." 

While  my  friend  was  speaking,  the  German  governess  passed 
down  the  avenue,  three  little  girls  clinging  to  her  skirts,  and  a 
golden-haired  boy  perched  aloft  on  her  sturdy  shoulders. 

%i  There  goes  Fraulein  Butterbrot,"  said  my  husband,  "  and  it 
must  be  confessed  that  the  children  seem  very  fond  of  her." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  answered  Mr.  Leaderly,  "  'tis  an  age  that  loves 
thick  bread  and  butter/' 

Then  bur  talk  wandered  to  other  things,  and  we  had,  for  the 
time,  forgotten  both  governess  and  children,  when  the  clank  of  the 
gate  made  us  look  in  that  way,  and  we  saw  a  labouring  man  run- 
ning towards  us,  across  the  lawn,  water  dripping  from  his  clothes, 
his  hands  outstretched,  his  face  of  a  ghastly  paleness. 

"  The  boy,  sir — the  boy — the  river — "  he  gasped. 

In  another  moment  the  two  gentlemen  and  the  labourer  were 
running  down  the  road  towards  the  river ;  and  we  hurried  after 
them,  as  fast  as  we  could  ;  I  trying  in  vain  to  soothe  my  friend's 
hysterical  excitement,  for  the  boy  was  her  only  son,  the  darling  of 
her  heart,  the  long  prayed  for,  long  waited  for  heir. 

Soon  we  met  our  husbands  returning  ;  Mr.  Leaderly  carrying 
his  son  in  his  arms,  and  dear  Henry  following  more  slowly,  bur- 
dened as  he  was  with  Fraulein's  substantial  weight.  By  my 
husband's  side  walked  the  labourer  who  had  given  the  alarm,  and 
who  was  now  volubly  describing  the  accident. 

Fraulein  and  the  children,  it  appeared,  had  sauntered  by  the 
river  side ;  the  steady  little  girls  in  front,  the  wild,  wilful  boy, 
held  by  the  governess'  hand.  But  suddenly,  he  sprang  away,  his 
fancy  caught  by  a  flower,  growing  at  the  waters  edge ;  and  in  a 
moment  he  had  fallen  from  the  steep  bank  into  the  river  below. 
Scarcely  another  moment  and  Fraulein  had  followed  the  boy  and 
had  caught  him  in  her  arms.  That  was  easy  enough,  but  the 
bank  was  so  steep  that  she  vainly  strove  to  climb  it ;  again  and 
again  the  loose  earth  gave  way,  and  she  fell  back  into  the  water  ; 
then,  by  a  supreme  effort,  she  raised  the  child  in  her  arms  and 
flung  him  upwards  with  all  her  strength. 

"  And,  faith,"  concluded  the  labourer,  "  it's  drowned  the  poor 
foreign  Miss  would  be  this  minute,  if  I  hadn't  been  working  on 
the  hill.  I  seen  it  all,  and  got  down  just  in  the  nick  of  time ;  for 
she'd  put  all  the  strength  that  was  left  in  her  to  fling  up  the  boy. 
The  rising  so  far  out  of  the  water  was  a  great  risk  entirely,  and 
Vol.  xiv.  No.  151.  >  c\ha\o 

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46  Everyday  Thoughts. 

she  knew  it  too,  as  I  could  see  by  the  pale  determined  face  of 

her But  sure,  them  quiet  ones  they  generally  has  a  power  of 

pluck/' 

All  the  household  gathered  anxiously  round  the  rescued  boy, 
and  I  whispered  to  Henry  to  oarry  Praulein  to  my  room,  where 
with  the  help  of  a  good-natured  housemaid,  I  soon  restored  her 
to  consciousness.    When  she  opened  her  eyes  her  first  words  were : 

"The  boy,  is  he  safe ?" 

And  when  I  assured  her  he  was  she  fell  asleep  with  a  smile 
that  beauty  might  have  envied — and  envied  in  vain. 

From  that  day  we  became  friends,  and  my  "  angel  in  mufti," 
as  Henry  called  her,  often  spent  part  of  her  holidays  with  us  ;  so 
that  I  learnt  her  history ;  one  of  those  sad  commonplace  tragedies, 
which  no  audience  heeds,  though  they  are  being  acted  over  and 
over  again  on  the  world's  gloomy  stage. 

Fraulein  is  the  daughter  of  a  German  professor,  living  in 
London  ;  a  clever  and  cultured  man,  but  whom  drink  has  dragged 
down,  through  long  years  of  misery,  till  he  is  both  unfit  and  un- 
willing to  work.  Sorrow  and  disgrace  have  soured  and  hardened 
her  mother,  and  for  home,  poor  Fraulein  has  only  a  sordid  London 
lodging,  unbrightened  by  that  domestic  love  which  can  gild  the 
bare  walls  of  garret  and  cabin. 

Among  these  surrounding's  had  the  girl  grown  up,  deprived 
of  the  tenderness,  and  praises,  and  caresses  which  seem  the  birth- 
right of  youth.  With  patient  gentleness  she  bore  her  mother's 
ill- temper  and  complainings,  her  father's  deeper  sins.  At  fourteen 
she  was  already  working  to  support  them  both  ;  teaching  German 
to  other  children  scarcely  younger  than  herself,  and  faithfully 
carrying  home  the  earnings  which  would  probably  be  spent  in 
one  night's  excess.  Now,  at  twenty,  she  is  still  working  hard 
for  those  unloving  parents,  dressing  like  a  servant,  and  denying 
herself  all  the  pleasures  and  harmless  frivolities  of  girlhood,  that 
she  may  pour  more  money  into  their  thankless  hands. 

Do  you  remember  the  sorrow  and  dismay  with  which  all 
Dublin  received  the  news  of  Sergeant  Fitzgerald's  sudden  death  P 
He  was  pleading  in  court  and  felt  a  strange  faintness,  followed  by 

a  few  minutes'  agony,  and  then the  awful  stillness  of  death. 

My  husband  was  his  friend,  and  had  to  convey  the  dreadful 
tidings  to  his  wife  and  little  children,  and  to  his  eldest  son,  a 
clever  handsome  boy,  whose  studies  were  just  ending. 


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Everyday  Thoughts.  47 

It  seems  but  yesterday  that  all  this  happened,  and  this  after- 
noon I  met  the  brilliant  boy  coming  down  the  steps  of  the 
Hibernian  Bank,  where  he  is  now  a  clerk.  He  walks  with  a  slow 
and  weary  step,  his  eyes  are  dim,  his  shoulders  bent,  and  already 
there  are  wrinkles  on  his  brow,  and  grey  streaks  in  his  hair.  The 
heads  of  the  bank  speak  of  him  as  trustworthy  and  diligent,  but 
the  other  clerks  call  him  an  old  fogey,  an  old  muff,  and  despise 
him  for  his  stinginess,  his  unsociableness,  his  indifference  to  all 
the  ordinary  pursuits  and  pleasures  of  manhood. 

But  as  he  turns  into  the  shabby  street  where  he  lives,  his  step 
becomes  lighter,  his  face  less  pale  and  sad.  There  are  eager  young 
faces  watching  for  him  at  the  window,  and  he  answers  their  smiles 
with  a  smile  almost  as  bright.  When  he  enters  the  little  sitting 
room,  his  invalid  mother  is  cheered  by  his  coming,  and  his 
young  brothers  and  sisters  crowd  round  him  for  sympathy  and 
help. 

The  poor  hard- worked  clerk  is  very  tired  after  his  long  day's 
drudgery.  How  he  would  enjoy  a  little  peace,  an  hour's  rest. 
But  he  never  thinks  of  escaping  from  his  young  tormentors  ;  with 
kindest  sympathy  he  listens  to  their  account  of  the  day's  events ; 
with  gentlest  patience  he  helps  them  to  prepare  the  morrow's 
tasks.  His  one  dream,  that  his  brothers  may  have  the  chances 
which  were  denied  to  him  ;  his  one  prayer,  that,  till  then,  he  may 
live  to  support  them. 

Poor  bank  clerk,  with  the  stooping  shoulders,  and  the  thread- 
bare coat ;  poor  hard- worked  toiler  with  the  worn  face  and  the 
weary  heart,  in  very  truth  thou  art  an  angel  unawares ! 

Last  week  I  spent  an  hour  at  the  CrSche,  among  the  little 
children  and  their  gentle  nurses  ;  and  I  amused  myself  watching 
the  mothers  who  came  to  fetch  their  babies  home. 

Among  them  was  a  woman,  who  looked  miserably  poor  and 
wretched.  Her  clothes  were  shabby  to  the  verge  of  raggedness, 
her  eyes  were  swollen  with  weeping,  and,  across  her  pale  cheek, 
was  a  bruise  which  told  of  recent  blows.  Altogether  she  had 
that  aspect  of  utter  misery,  which  our  minds  instinctively  associate 
with  vice,  and  I  could  not  help  shrinking  back  a  little,  when  she 
passed  me  on  her  way  to  the  cot  where  her  child  was  lying.  Then 
I  saw  the  crowing  delight  of  the  baby,  as  he  nestled  in  his  mother's 
arms  ;  and  the  look  of  unutterable  love  that  brightened  the 
woman's  poor  plain  face,  while  she  tenderly  wrapped  her  old  shawl 
round  the  cbild. 


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48  Fitzpatrick'a  L\fe  of  Fxt&er  Burke. 

I  learnt  later  that  this  poor  woman  is  one  of  those  daily 
martyrs,  whose  humble  sufferings  are  recorded  in  the  Book  of 
Life.  She  is  a  charwoman,  that  servant  of  our  servants,  who 
stands  on  the  very  last  rung  of  the  ladder  of  servitude ;  and  she 
has  a  drunken  husband,  who  spends  his  wages  at  the  public 
house.  Then  when  there  is  no  more  money,  come  the  blows  of 
which  I  had  seen  the  trace. 

All  this  she  bears  uncomplainingly  ;  loving  her  child,  loving 
even  her  drunken  husband,  and  offering  to  God  the  constant 
suffering  of  her  sunless  life. 

"lis  ever  so ;  God's  chosen  ones  pass  by,  unnoticed  and  un- 
praised,  as  they  patiently  toil  up  the  rugged  hill,  whose  summit  is 
in  heaven.  Angels  are  all  around  us  and  we  know  it  not ;  they 
are  kneeling  at  our  feet,  standing  at  our  side,  dwelling  in  our 
kitchens,  stretching  forth  their  hands  by  the  roads  we  daily  pass ; 
but  we  do  not  recognise  them,  blinded  as  we  are  by  the  bondage 
of  our  worldliness. 

We  stoop  with  half  contemptuous  pity  to  some  poor  creature, 
who,  simple  soul,  looks  up  admiringly  to  the  little  pedestal  on  which 
we  stand.  She  thinks  us  kind,  and  generous,  and  gracious,  to 
notice  her.  But  the  angels  watching  us  from  heaven,  how 
different  is  their  verdict !  They  often  claim  kinship  with  this 
world's  outcasts,  and  I  fear,  as  often  turn  away — alas,  how  sadly 
— from  the  whited  sepulchre  of  our  life,  with  itspharisaical  piety, 
its  daily  deceptions,  its  selfishness,  its  meanness,  and  its  greed. 


FITZPATRICK'S  LIFE  OF  FATHER  BURKE.* 

THE  author  of  "  The  Life,  Times,  and  Correspondence  of  the 
Right  Rev.  Dr.  Doyle,  Bishop  of  Kildare  and  Leighlin," 
of  "  Ireland  before  the  Union,"  of  "  The  Sham  Squire,  and  the 
Informers  of  1798,"  of  the  "  Life  of  Charles  Lever,"  and  of  many 
other  books  and  papers  on  similar  subjects,  has  manifestly  a  very 
strong  vocation  for  the  biographical  department  of  literature. 
The  chief  elements  of  a  vocation  are  inclination  and  aptitude.     In 

•  The  Life  of  the  Very  Rev.  Thomas  N.  Burke,  O.P.     By  William  J. 
Fitzpatrick,  F.S.A.  London :  Kegan  Paul,  Trench  &  Oo. 

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Fitepatrick's  Life  qf  Hither  Burke.  49 

the  present  instance,  the  overmastering  inclination  is  proved  by 
the  perseverance  which  has  brought  out  a  whole  library  devoted 
to  the  biographical  history  of  Ireland  in  this  nineteenth  century, 
from  Dr.  Lanigan  to  Father  Burke ;  and,  if  the  aptitude  were 
wanting  to  back  up  the  inclination,  the  reading  public  and  the 
critics  would  long  ago  have  undeceived  Mr.  Fitzpatrick.  The 
vote  of  thanks  after  each  of  his  performances  may  not  have  been 
absolutely  unanimous,  but  the  Ayes  must  certainly  have  had  it, 
for  otherwise,  not  even  Mr.  Fitzpatrick's  enthusiasm  for  his  art 
could  have  carried  him  through  the  toil  of  compiling  such  stately 
volumes  as  the  tfro  which  lie  before  us. 

In  his  preface,  Mr.  Fitzpatrick  apologises  for  having  under- 
taken a  task  which  might  seem  to  belong  more  naturally  to  a 
Father  of  the  same  Order,  as  in  France  Father  Chocarne  wrote 
the  Vie  Intime  of  Father  Lacordaire.  One  child  of  St.  Dominick 
was  pre-eminently  qualified  for  such  an  office — the  gifted  English- 
woman who  has  given  us  such  masculine  works  as  "  Christian 
Schools  and  Scholars."  But  no  one  could  collect  for  another  the 
materials  of  a  work  like  the  present,  and,  if  an  Irish  layman  had 
not  come  forward,  no  such  record  might  have  been  left  to  pos- 
terity of  the  man  who  perhaps  did  most  in  our  time  to  maintain 
the  tradition  of  Irish  eloquence. 

For  the  undue  prominence  given' in  these  sketches  to  one  side 
of  his  hero's  character,  his  quaint  humour  and  bright  social 
qualities,  Mr.  Fitzpatrick  pleads  in  excuse  that  his  soul  in  its 
highest  moments  of  inspiration  had  expressed  itself  in  his  sermons. 
It  would  be  very  well  indeed,  if  Father  Burke's  printed  sermons 
could  be  read  by  the  readers  of  these  amusing  volumes,  though 
his  printed  discourses  give  to  those  who  never  heard  him,  no  idea 
of  his  unction  and  the  solemnity  of  his  demeanour.  We  were 
about  to  apply  to  Father  Burke  what  Mitchel  in  his  Last 
Conquest  of  Ireland  says  of  O'Connell's  oratory ;  but  we  pass  on  to 
Father  Burke's  biographer.  A  writer  in  United  Ireland  says  with 
truth  that "  Mr.  Fitzpatrick's  plan  is  not  to  sketch  the  great  Friar 
as  a  colossal  figure  and  use  his  facts  as  an  artist  would  his  paints 
to  fill  in  the  colouring.  He  chiefly  lets  Father  Burke's  speeches, 
sermons,  and  deeds  tell  their  own  tale,  helping  them  out  with  the 
boundless  illustrations  of  his  inner  life,  for  which  Mr.  Fitzpatrick 
seems  to  have  ransacked  every  convent  of  the  Order,  and  racy  ana 
of  his  lighter  hours  for  which  almost  everybody  who  ever  dined 
or  chatted  with  him,  seems  to  have  been  laid  under  contribution. 
The  result  is,  upon  the  whole,  a  most  entertaining,  inspiring,  and 


ioogl 


e 


50  FitzpatricV*  Life  of  Father  Burke. 

roughly  faithful  portrait  of  the  big-limbed,  big-hearted  Galway 
Friar,  with  the  rich  organ- voice,  the  golden  tongue,  and  the  dark 
eye  that  sometimes  filled  with  heaven's  lightnings,  and  sometimes 
with  the  rollicking  drollery  of  his  race." 

It  is  plain  that  such  a  plan  of  writing  biography  has  its 
perils  as  well  as  its  advantages.  People  will  always  differ  in 
their  notions  about  the  line  of  demarcation  which  separates  gossip 
from  twaddle.  Father  Burke's  admirers — and  who  that  ever 
came  in  any  way  under  the  spell  of  his  bright  genius  and  kind 
heart  could  help  admiring  him? — will  wish  that  some  things 
had  been  left  unsaid,  and  that  other  things  had  been  said 
differently.  But  there  can  be  only  one  opinion  as  to  Mr. 
Fitzpatrick's  indefatigable  zeal  in  accomplishing  his  task,  his 
marvellous  industry  in  amassing  materials  from  far  and  near,  and 
his  equally  marvellous  ingenuity  in  piecing  together  the  scattered 
fragments  into  a  biographical  mosaic,  to  which  every  slight  per- 
sonal allusion  in  any  of  Father  Burke's  sermons  or  lectures  is  forced 
to  lend  its  little  streak  of  colour.  If  any  Irish  Pere  Ghocarner 
would  supplement  these  volumes  with  some  more  sacred  reve- 
lations of  the  "  Interior  Life"  of  this  Irish  Lacordaire,  we  should 
approach  to  the  full  idea  of  this  most  devoted  son  of  St.  Bominick, 
who  was  not  only  regular  and  edifying,  but  almost  austere  in  his 
asceticism.  But  as  it  is,  the  student  of  these  varied  pages,  who 
gives  due  weight  to  the  Rev.  Father  Burke's  influence  with  the 
gravest  audiences  in  conventual  and  sacerdotal  retreats,  will  form 
from  the  two  fine  tomes,  which  Messrs.  Kegan  Paul,  and  Com- 
pany have  produced  excellently  in  all  mechanical  details,  almost 
as  accurate  a  picture  of  the  great  preacher's  life  and  character  as 
the  frontispiece  gives  us  of  his  thoughtful  features,  and  of  his 
clear,  manly  handwriting.* 

*  A  mistake  occurs  at  page  820  of  the  second  volume.  Father  Burke's  first 
panegyric  of  St.  Ignatius  was  preached,  not  in  London  but  in  Dublin,  in  the 
year  1873 ;  and  it  was  the  invitation  of  an  Irish  Jesuit  that  he  accepted  eagerly 
with  the  remark  that  this  would  gratify  an  unsatisfied  desire  of  his  heart. 


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(    51    ) 


NEW  BOOKS. 

4t  Thb  Poet  in  May,  by  Evelyn  Pyne,"  is  another  claim  on  the  part  of 
Messrs.  Kegan  Paul,  Trenoh,  and  Company,  to  the  title  we  have 
elsewhere  conferred  upon  them,  in  calling  them  the  Poet's  Publishers. 
The  Laureate,  indeed,  has  recently  transferred  its  allegiance  from  them 
to  the  Macmillans ;  but  ohangeableness  has  always  been  Lord  Tenny- 
son's policy  in  this  matter.  Moxon  was  hardly  his  first  publisher ; 
and  since  then,  he  has  had  others  beside  Strahan,  King,  Paul,  Macmillan. 
Perhaps  his  next  move  will  be  into  O'Oonnell  Street/  Miss  Evelyn 
Pyne  is  fully  worthy  of  the  good  company  that  she  meets  in  the 
catalogue  of  this  favourite  firm  of  Parnassus.  Our  readers  must  take 
our  word  for  this  for  the  present,  as  so  many  of  the  early  pages  of 
this  present  number  are  devoted  to  a  minute  discussion  of  the  claims 
of  the  latest  Irish  poet,  that  we  must  defer  to  another  month  our 
review  of  her  English  sister.  Miss  Pyne's  new  volume  has  a  much 
greater  variety  of  matter  and  treatment  than  "  A  Dream  of  Gironde," 
her  first  publication,  which  the  Westminster  Review,  The  Saturday 
Review,  The  Scotsman,  and  other  critics,  welcomed  with  warm  and  judi- 
cious praise,  and  of  which  our  own  magazine  last  year  gave  a  satis- 
factory account  at  page  267  of  the  volume  just  completed.  Though 
her  decided  dramatic  talent  breaks  out  in  some  fine  fragments  of 
blank  verse  in  which  she  excels,  the  present  collection  is  chiefly 
lyrical,  in  every  form  of  metre,  according  to  the  changing  nature  of 
the  thoughts.  The  thoughts  are  always  noble  and  pure,  though  we 
must  confess  we  grudge  such  fine  poetry  to  such  melancholy  themes  as 
the  self-inflicted  deaths  of  Charlotte  Stieglitz  and  Chatterton.  We* 
suspect  that  this  true  poet  is  at  her  best  in  the  "  Leaves  from  Mary 
Merivale's  Diary,"  and  "  At  the  Gate  of  Death,"  and  these  are  both  in 
that  stately  and  perilous  metre  which  Professor  Conington  says  can  be 
managed  properly  by  only  one  or  two  in  an  age,  and  of  which  the  Ettrick 
Shepherd  said  that,  whenever  he  attempted  it,  he  never  could  tell 
whether  he  was  really  writing  prose  or  poetry.  But  this  present  book- 
note,  as  we  have  said,  is  only  meant  to  pledge  us  to  a  careful  study  of 
"  The  Poet  in  May,"  long  before  May  comes  round. 

We  defy  the  Christmas  season  of  '85  to  produce  a  better  book  of 
its  kind  than  Mrs.  Frank  Pentrill's  "  Odile  :  a  Tale  ofkthe  Commune  " 
(Dublin :  M.  H.  Gill  and  Son).  It  is  aimed  at  more  mature  readers 
than  those  for  whom  the  author  catered  last  year  in  her  "Lina's 
Tales."  She,  too,  like  Miss  Kathleen  O'Meara,  shows  that  she  has  a 
right  to  lay  the  scene  of  her  tale  in  France  where  she  is  sufficiently  at 
home  to  avoid  those  little  exhibitions  of  collateral  ignorance  into  which 
many  clever  writers  fall  in  similar  circumstances.  "  Odile/'  besides 
being  very  interesting,  is  very  instructive  and  edifying,  without  a 


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52  Notes  on  New  Books. 

trace  of  the  goody-goody  in  style  and  sentiment.  The  O'Connell 
Street  Press  has  produced  the  book  in  that  festive  garb  which  suits 
the  Christmasbox  season. 

Father  Monsabre,  a  member  of  the  same  order  which  has  given  to 
the  Church  such  orators  as  Laoordaire  and  Thomas  Burke,  has  long 
been  one  of  the  most  eloquent  of  French  preachers.  An  Irish  Ameri- 
can priest,  also  a  Dominican,  Father  Stephen  Byrne,  has  published 
through  the  New  York  Catholic  Publication  Society,  an  excellent 
translation  of  the  French  Dominican's  "  Meditations  on  the  Mysteries 
of  the  Holy  Rosary." 

Among  the  shorter  stories  which  have  enlivened  the  pages  of  this 
Magazine  there  is  hardly  one  that  seems  to  have  caught  the  fancy  of 
our  constituents  more  than  '*  Eobin  Redbreast's  Victory,"  with  which 
our  fifth  volume  opened  in  January,  1877.  We  recall  it  for  the  sake 
of  those  readers  whose  memory  goes  so  far  back,  in  order  to  prejudice 
them  in  favour  of  a  new  work  by  the  same  author,  Miss  Kathleen 
O'Meara,  who  has  done  injustice  to  her  fame  by  linking  some  of 
her  works,  such  as  the  excellent  "  Life  of  Thomas  Grant,  first  Bishop 
of  Southwark,"  not  with  her  own  sweet  Irish  name  but  with  the  pen- 
name  of  "  Grace  Ramsay."  Her  new  book  is  called  "  Queen  by  Right 
Divine,  and  other  Tales."  (Burns  and  Oates).  Why  is  it  called  so  ? 
It  consists  simply  of  three  biographical  sketches — Sister  Rosalie,  the 
famous  Parisian  Sister  of  Charity,  the  still  more  famous  Madame 
Swetohine,  and  Father  Laoordaire.  The  lives  and  characters  of  these 
two  noble  and  saintly  women,  and  of  this  great  sacred  orator  are 
drawn  with  Miss  O'Meara's  wonted  liveliness  and  solidity  of  style, 
with  many  life-like  touches  and  some  idioms  also  which  show  her  to 
be  more  a  Frenchwoman  than  an  Irishwoman. 

The  Servite  Fathers  have  been  for  twenty  years  at  work  in  London, 
and  one  of  them  has  just  published  there  a  very  complete  and  satis- 
factory biography  of  their  holy  Founder — "Life  of  St.  Philip  Benizi 
of  the  Order  of  the  Servants  of  Mary,  with  some  account  of  the  first 
disciples  of  the  Saint."  By  the  Rev.  Peregrine  Soulier,  Priest  of  the 
same  order  (London :  Burns  and  Oates).  This  year,  1885,  is  the  sixth 
centenary  of  the  Saint's  death,  a  fitting  occasion  for  this  act  of  filial 
piety.  Father  Soulier's  work,  written  in  French,  has  been  already 
translated  into  Italian  and  received  with  great  favour.  The  French 
censor  states  that  the  narrative  is  founded  on  a  wide  and  solid  erudi- 
tion, and  it  is  not  only  an  extremely  edifying  Life  of  a  Saint,  written 
in  a  style  at  once  dignified  and  easy,  but  also  a  valuable  and  very- 
interesting  fragment  of  monastic  history,  and  of  the  history  of  the 
Italian  republics  in  mediaeval  times.  It  is  the  fullest  and  most 
satisfactory  piece  of  hagiography  that  has  of  late  years  been  added 
to  our  literature.  The  English  version  is  admirably  executed  and  fills 
a  very  portly  volume  of  566  pages,  not  spread  out  like  a  magazine- 


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Notes  on  New  Books.  53 

poem  of  the  Laureate's,  but  printed  with  type  compact  and  economical 
though  pleasantly  clear  and  readable.  A  writer  in  Notes  and 
Queries  said  lately  that  the  reason  why  reviews  never  mentioned  the 
prices  of  books  was  merely  a  tradition  coming  down  from  times 
when  a  paragraph  of  that  nature  would  be  taxed  as  an  advertisement. 
Advertisements  are  no  longer  taxed ;  and  publishers  ought  to  enable 
reviewers  to  mention  the  interesting  particulars  of  price.  The  price 
of  the  "Life  of  St.  Philip  Benizi"  is,  we  think,  eight  shillings. 

A  popular  edition,  with  much  new  matter,  and  the  statistics  brought 
down  to  the  present  time,  has  just  been  published  of  the  very  learned 
work,  "  The  Chair  of  Peter,  or  the  Papacy  considered  in  its  institution, 
development,  and  organization,  and  in  the  benefits  which  for  over 
eighteen  centuries  it  has  conferred  on  mankind.  By  John  Nicholas 
Murphy,  Roman  Count,  author  of  '  Terra  Incognita/  "  (Burns  and 
Oates).  Even  in  this  less  expensive  form  it  is  a  fine  tome  of  720 
ample  pages,  of  which  fifty  are  devoted  to  a  minute  and  most 
serviceable  index.  Count  Murphy  has  taken  immense  pains  to  'secure 
fulness  and  accuracy  in  the  treatment  of  his  supremely  important 
subject,  and  all  the  incidental  questions  mixed  up  with  it.  Very 
valuable  and  interesting  information  is  frequently  given  in  the  notes, 
which  sometimes  furnish  brief  accounts  of  the  authors  quoted  and 
supply  dates  and  particulars  of  the  highest  utility  to  the  careful 
reader.  Non-catholic  critics  such  as  The  Standard  and  the  British 
Quarterly  Review  have  borne  emphatic  testimony  to  the  moderation  of 
the  historian's  tone.  Count  Murphy  writes  in  a  clear  and  calm  style 
well  suited  to  his  theme  and  his  purpose. 

"  Theodore  Wibaux,  Zouave  Pontificale  et  Jesuite,"  (Paris :  Betaux- 
Bray)  is  far  the  most  interesting  piece  of  biography  that  has  come  to 
us  from  France  for  many  a  day.  The  author,  Father  C.  Coetlosquet, 
S.J.,  has  fulfilled  his  duty  admirably.  This  beautiful  life  occupied 
only  the  thirty-three  years  between  1849  and  1882.  The  glimpses  we 
get  of  Theodore' s  family  are  most  amiable  and  edifying.  After  a 
brilliant  boyhood  Theodore  became  a  Papal  Zouave,  and  his  letters 
and  journal,  which  are  here  edited  very  judiciously,  give  the  best 
accounts  to  be  found  anywhere  of  a  Zouave's  life  in  Italy.  In  the 
unhappy  war  with  Prussia  the  young  man  served  under  General  de 
Charette  among  the  ••  Volunteers  of  the  West."  In  1871  he  entered 
another  regiment — the  Company  of  Jesus — and  died  on  the  eve  of 
priesthood.  We  hope  at  some  time  or  other  to  enter  into  the  details 
of  this  short  .but  full  and  varied  life,  which  is  of  quite  exceptional 
interest. 

"  Authority  and  Obedience,"  by  J.  Augustus  J.  Johnstone  (London : 
Burns  and  Oates)  is  a  pamphlet  which  will  hardly  be  read  by  any  one 
who  does  not  accept  beforehand  its  very  orthodox  political  and  social 
doctrines.     One  of  Mr.  Johnstone's  remarks  is  worth  quoting.     "I 


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54  Notes  on  New  Books. 

fear  posthumous  almsgiving  is  of  little  avail  to  the  giver.  Charity, 
to  be  efficacious,  should  be  aocompanied  bj  a  little  self-denial,  and 
therefore  for  our  own  sakes  we  should  support  the  clergy  and  the 
Church  during  our  lives  and  out  of  our  own  savings,  and  not  lay  that 
part  of  our  duty  on  our  heirs." 

Mr.  Washbourne  of  18,  Paternoster  Bow,  London,  has  added  two 
new  sixpenny  plays  to  his  large  repertory  of  "  Dramas,  Comedies,  and 
Farces."  Things  of  this  sort,  that  seem  very  dreary  in  the  reading, 
pass  off  very  pleasantly,  we  are  told,  when  properly  mounted  and 
Performed.  It  is  a  striking  proof  of  the  power  of  the  stage.  Even 
with  a  good  moral  and  a  religious  tone,  it  might  be  possible  to  produce 
a  bright,  clever  little  play ;  but  we  have  not  seen  such.  The  two 
present  attempts — "  Christmas  Revels,"  and  "  The  Wanderers  " — 
seem  to  be  below  a  very  low  average.  "  The  Wanderers"  is  far  the 
best.  Both  are  in  rhymed  couplets,  like  Dryden's  plays  or  the  French 
theatre.  The  rhymesters  show  skill  enough  to  avoid  such  rhymes  as 
f<  Craze  "  and  "  Rage,"  "  Time  "  find  Fine,"  if  they  cared. 

The  same  publisher,  who  always  does  his  part  of  the  work  admir- 
ably, has  sent  us  another  little  book  of  which  we  can  speak  in  a  more 
genial  Christmas  tone.  Under  the  same  cover  (an  exceedingly  pretty 
one),  we  have  "  Little  Dick's  Christmas  Carols,  and  other  Tales,"  by 
Miss  Amy  Fowler.  There  are  half  a  dozen  little  stories,  each  teach- 
ing a  very  good  lesson,  which  young  readers  may  understand  all  the 
better  from  being  taught  in  a  rather  oommonplace  fashion,  without 
any  of  those  bright,  fanciful  touches  which  we  are  accustomed  to  in 
such  writers  of  juvenile  tales  as  the  authors  of  "  The  Little  Flower 
Seekers,"  or  of  the  more  famous  but  hardly  more  brilliant <(  Alice  in 
Wonderland." 

There  are  very  many  of  our  readers  in  oonvents,  and  in  Catholic 
homes,  who  by  choice  or  by  necessity  have  recourse  for  their  spiritual 
reading  to  the  language  of  Bourdaloue,  and  of  St.  Francis  de  Sales. 
For  this  reason,  French  books  are  occasionally  sent  to  us  for  review. 
The  latest  of  these  is  a  very  cheap  volume  (costing  only  a  franc  and  a- 
half),.of  160  close  but  clearly  printed  pages,  containing  a  full  and 
most  interesing  account  of  Father  Lewis  Ruellan,  S.  J.,  with  a  collec- 
tion of  his  edifying  letters,  and  then  a  sketch  of  Father  Augustus 
Ruellan  by  the  younger  brother  who  survived  him  a  few  years. 
Those  last  few  years  were  spent  as  a  Jesuit  missionary  in  the  Rocky 
Mountains,  chiefly  working  among  the  American  Indians.  The  letters 
sent  home  to  Europe  are  extremely  interesting,  interlarded  quaintly 
here  and  there  with  words  and  phrases  from  that  terrible  English 
language  which  the  French  Jesuit  was  then  compelled  to  learn.  It  is 
touching  to  read  how  he  was  sometimes  consoled  amid  his  rude  priva- 


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tione  by  the  faith  and  goodness  of  Irish  women  and  children  who  are 
found  in  those  wild  places  and  everywhere. 

The  fifth  of  the  well-printed  ten  cent  volumes  issued  at  Notre 
Dame,  Indiana,  as  "  The  Ave  Maria  Series/'  is  u  The  Mad  Penitent  of 
Todi,  by  Mrs.  Anna  Hanson  Dorsey."  To  use  a  curious  word  of  Mrs. 
Dorsey's,  we  cannot  enthuse  over  it  very  much.  It  purports  to  be  a 
dreadfully  picturesque  sketch  of  the  conversion  of  the  Franciscan 
Jacopone,  the  supposed  author  of  the  Stabat  Mater.  We  should  have 
liked  the  story  told  in  a  very  different  manner.  As  one  little  mark  of 
poor  workmanship,  why  does  the  writer  mix  up  French  and  Italian  by 
calling  her  hero  Jacques  dei  Benedetti  ?  Tet  there  are  many  different 
palates  to  be  pleased,  and  some  may  prefer  these  florid  pages  to 
Maurice  Egan's  simple  little  tales,  of  which  we  are  promised  a  batch 
in  the  next  number  of  "  The  Ave  Maria  Series,"  and  to  which  we 
promise  a  hearty  welcome. 

Mrs.  Eleanor  Donnelly  of  Philadelphia  is  the  author  of  a  beautiful 
"  Hymn  for  the  Jubilee  of  the  Priesthood  of  His  Holiness  Pope  Leo 
XIII."  Vincent  Joachim  Pecci  was  ordained  priest  on  the  23rd  of  Decem- 
ber, 1837,  by  Cardinal  Odiscalchi,  in  the  chapel  of  St.  Stanislaus,  in  the 
Church  of  St.  Andrew,  on  the  Quirinal.  This  was  the  Jesuit  novitiate, 
and  it  reminds  us  that  this  holy  Cardinal  renounced  his  ecclesiastical 
dignities  to  become  a  member  of  the  Society  of  Jesus.  As  the  fiftieth 
anniversary  of  the  Pope's  ordination  is  still  in  the  future,  there  will 
be  time  for  this  Jubilee  Hymn  to  circulate  among  the  English-singing 
nations.  But  wide  as  the  sphere  is  of  this  very  convenient  language 
which  we  speak  and  write,  Miss  Donnelly's  Jubilee  strains  address 
a  wider  audience.  A  very  perfect  German  version,  and  also  one  in  the 
language  of  His  Holiness  to  whom  the  work  is  about  to  be  presented, 
accompany  the  English  text;  but  the  Italian  cannot  be  sung  to  the 
original  musio  which  has  been  composed  for  the  English  and  German, 
by  Professor  Wiegand.  It  is  arranged  as  a  duet  or  trio  for  equal 
voices,  and  as  a  chorus  for  soprano,  alto,  tenor,  and  bass,  with  piano  or 
orchestra  accompaniment.  As  many  of  our  readers  will  draw  a 
practical  conclusion  from  this  notice,  we  may  add  that  the  publisher  is 
T.  Fisher,  7,  Bible  House,  New  York,  and  that  the  price  of  the  score 
is  forty  cents,  of  the  orchestral  part,  one  dollar.  What  these  prices 
may  become  in  the  idiom  of  O'Connell-street,  or  Orchard-street, 
the  present  deponent  wotteth  not.  With  regard  to  the  music  which 
Herr  Weigand  has  wedded  to  Miss  Donnelly's  poetry,  our  musical 
critic  reports  that  the"  air  is  in  style  like  a  German  Yolkslied,  simple 
and  tuneful,  and  will  be  acceptable  in  schools  and  convents.  A  more 
original  composition  is  "  The  Last  Carol ;  song  written  by  C.  E. 
Meekkirke ;  composed  by  Odoardo  Barri "  (London :  Playfair  and  Co.) 
It  may  be  had  in  two  keys,  C  and  E,  is  both  musically  and  effectively 


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56  Notes  on  New  Books. 

written  for  the  voice  with  an  organ  or  harmonium  acoompaniment 
ad  libitum.  The  change  of  harmony  from  the  minor  to  the  major  is 
pleasing  and  appropriate.  Mrs.  Meetkerke*s  stanzas  are  very  sweet 
and  touching  and  quite  in  the  spirit  of  these  Christmas  times. 

The  largest  and  most  learned  tome  that  this  month  has  brought 
under  our  notice  is  the  second  volume  of  Mt.  Joseph  Gillow's  "  Liter- 
ary and  Biographical  History,  or  Bibliographical  Dictionary  of 
English  Catholics,  from  the  breach  with  Rome  in  1534,  to  the  present 
time  "  (Burns  and  Oatee).  This  volume  carries  the  work  from  "  Lord 
Dacre,"  to  Bishop  Gradwell.  In  many  respects  it  is  an  improvement 
on  its  predecessor.  It  is  impossible  to  turn  over  ten  pages  without 
being  impressed  with  Mr.  Gillow's  extraordinary  diligence  in  gather- 
ing materials  for  such  minute  notices  of  so  many  thousands  of  persons 
and  tens  of  thousands  of  books.  The  accounts  of  such  moderns  as 
Father  Dalgairns  and  Lady  Georgiana  Fullerton,  are  very  satisfactory. 
English  Catholics  especially  are  deeply  indebted  to  Mr.  Gillow,  and  we 
trust  they  will  not  confine  themselves  to  a  barren  admiration  of  his 
labours.  When  shall  something  similar  be  done  for  Ireland  ?  We 
should  have  liked  an  index  for  each  volume ;  but  at  any  rate,  we 
entreat  the  author  to  furnish  us  with  a  very  full  index  of  the  whole 
work  at  its  conclusion.  And  may  that  conclusion  be  happily  reached 
before  as  many  years  shall  have  elapsed  as  there  are  volumes  in  this 
excellent  "  Bibliographical  Dictionary  of  English  Catholics." 

"The  Birthday  Book  of  our  Dead"  (M.  H.  Gill  and  Son)  is  an 
excellent  idea  admirably  carried  out.  Few  care  to  have  their  birth- 
days remembered,  as  the  years  glide  on ;  but  there  are  many  advan- 
tages in  keeping  a  record  of  the  anniversaries  of  the  deaths  of  departed 
friends.  In  this  book  a  page  is  assigned  to  each  day  of  the  year,  and 
a  sufficient  space  at  the  bottom  of  each  page  is  left  blank  for  the 
insertion  of  names  and  dates,  the  rest  of  the  page  being  occupied 
with  two  or  three  extracts  in  prose  and  verse,  generally  teaching  in  a 
terse  and  vivid  way  some  of  the  great  lessons  of  life  and  death  or 
suggesting  motives  of  consolation  to  mourners.  The  present  collection 
differs  from  ordinary  birthday  books,  not  only  in  turning  our  thoughts 
to  the  other  end  of  life,  but  also  in  furnishing  us  with  full  and  sugges- 
tive passages  instead  of  mere  soraps  and  catoh words.  The  compilation 
shows  a  great  deal  of  taste  and  originality.  The  last  quality  will  appear 
from  a  glance  at  the  index  of  authors.  In  this  index  we  have  counted 
up  the  number  of  times  that  the  most  frequently  quoted  are  quoted, 
passing  over  all  those  who  are  represented  here  by  less  than  half  a 
dozen  extracts ;  though  this  rule  excludes  many  who  rank  high  when 
suffrages  nan  solum  numerantur  sed  pmdtr oritur,  when  quality  is  taken 
into  account  as  well  as  quantity.  Our  minimum  is  just  reached  by 
Washington  Irving,  Pfcre  Besson,  Abbe  Gay,  and  Cardinal  Manning, 
while  even  Fathers  Burke  and  Lacordaire,  St.  Chrysostom  and  Denis 


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Notes  on  New  Books.  57 

Florence  Mao  Carthy,  fall  short  of  it  by  a  unit.  Those  who  are  quoted 
seven  times  are  (in  alphabetical  order)  Father  Collins,  Dr.  Grant  of 
Southwark,  Pere  Gratry,  Katharine  Tynan,  and  the  American 
Whittier.  The  number  8  is  represented  by  Ellen  Downing,  Canon 
Gilbert,  Thomas  Moore,  Rosa  Mulholland,  and  Wordsworth.  The 
nines  are  Mrs.  Browning,  Carlyle,  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  the  Rev. 
Matthew  Russell,  S.  J.,  and  Thackeray.  "  L.E.L.,"  Russell  Lowell, 
Father  Ryder,  and  Aubrey  de  Vere,  each  furnish  half  a  score  of 
quotations.  A  strange  trio  comes  under  the  number  eleven — Dickens, 
Father  Joseph  Farrell,  and  Shakespeare.  The  even  dozen  has  no 
representative,  whereas  the  baker's  dozen  has  Byron,  Father  Abraham 
Ryan  of  Mobile,  and  Madame  Swetchine  to  stand  for  it.  And  now 
the  field  (in  sporting  phrase)  grows  thinner;  only  St.  Augustine 
having  14  marks,  Fenelon  15,  Mrs.  Remans  and  Pere  de  Ravignan 
16  each.  Eugenie  de  Guerin,  St.  Francis  de  Sales,  Mrs.  Craven,  and 
Lord  Tennyson  have  22,  23,  24,  and  25  extracts  respectively.  Finally, 
Longfellow  figures  28  times  in  this  anthology,  Cardinal  Newman  31 
times,  Adelaide  Procter  32  times,  and  Father  F.  W.  Faber  is  far  ahead 
of  all  with  exactly  fifty  specimens,  nearly  all  of  his  prose.  The  records 
entered  in  this  beautiful  book  ought  not  to  be  confined  to  one's  own 
family  but  to  include  many  known  to  us  only  by  name,  for  whom  we 
shall  be  reminded  to  pray,  seeing  their  names  in  "The  Birthday 
Book  of  our  Dead." 

The  Art  and  Book  Company  of  Leamington  have  brought  out  for 
1886  a  Catholic  Prayerbook  Calendar,  a  Church  Boor  Calendar,  and  an 
Order  of  Vespers  for  Sundays  and  Holidays. 

The  Illustrated  Catholic  Family  Annual  (New  York  Catholic 
Publication  Society)  is  now  in  its  eighteenth  year,  and  the  issue  for 
1886  is  one  of  the  most  interesting  of  the  series.  It  is  crammed  with 
biographical  and  miscellaneous  sketches,  and  copiously  illustrated  with 
excellent  engravings,  giving  successful  portraits  of  the  new  Archbishop 
of  Dublin,  and  Dr.  Corrigan  the  new  Archbishop  of  New  York, 
Cardinal  Moran,  Father  Peter  Beckx,  S.J.,  Lady  Georgiana  Fullerton, 
A.  M.  Sullivan,  Cardinal  M'Cabe  and  Cardinal  M'Closkey,  and  some 
American  notabilities,  such  as  the  first  Bishop  of  Mobile  and  Father 
Badin  the  first  priest  of  the  United  States. 

A  Sermon  preached  by  Father  Humphrey,  S.J.  at  the  clothing  of 
two  Sisters  of  Mercy  in  St.  Catharine's  Convent,  Edinburgh,  has  been 
published  under  the  title  of  "  The  Spouses  of  the  King/' 

Sir  James  Marshal,  late  Chief  Justice  of  the  Gold  Coast  Colony, 
has  published  in  a  neat  little  sixpenny  pamphlet  his  "  Reminiscences 
of  West  Africa  and  its  Missions,"  .Extremely  interesting  and  edifying 
the  reminiscences  are.  We  heartily  agree  with  Sir  James  Marshall 
that  the  Annals  of  the  Propagation  of  the  Faith  are  ''in  general  too 
depressing  and  dull,  giving  nearly  always  the  gloomy  side  of  things, 


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58  Notes  on  New  Books. 

dwelling  on  trials,  dangers,  difficulties,  and  revelling  in  martyrdoms 
and  cruelties."  The  good  Chief  Justice's  experience  is  that  Catholic 
Missionaries  are  as  happy  and  cheerful  a  set  of  men  as  he  ever  met. 
"  The  pluck  of  a  soldier  (he  adds)  made  even  the  Ashanti  Expedition 
a  sort  of  amusing  picnic  to  those  who  really  had  pluck,  and  they  were 
decidedly  the  majority.  So  also  the  vocation  of  the  Missionary  keeps 
him  happy  and  cheery  through  everything,  and  if  this  spirit  prevailed 
more  in  missionary  letters  and  literature,  I  think  it  would  take  better 
with  the  general  public." 

Messrs.  Browne  and  Nolan  are  the  publishers  of  a  little  pamphlet 
entitled  "  An  Olive  Branch."  It  is  well- written  and  well-intentioned ; 
but  it  is  political  and  therefore  beyond  our  sphere. 

Denvir's  Penny  Irish  National  Almanac,  published  at  Liverpool, 
is  kept  up  cleverly. 

"  Eason's  Almanac  for  Ireland  for  the  year  1886  "  (Dublin :  "W. 
H.  Smith  and  Son)  fully  maintains  its  high  reputation  for  accuracy, 
research,  and  great  practical  utility.  One  of  the  most  interesting 
items  in  this  thirteenth  yearly  issue  is  a  clear  summary  of  the  views 
of  some  leading  politicians  on  the  important  question  of  Irish  Self- 
Government. 

But  even  at  Christmas  we  cannot  go  on  for  ever  noticing  new  books. 
One  very  cheap  and  very  attractive  book  for  the  season  is  a  handsome 
quarto  entitled  "Good  and  Pleasant  Heading  for  Boys  and  Girls," 
containing  Tales,  Sketches,  and  Poems  (M.  H.  Gill  and  Son).  A 
Christmas-box  of  a  different  kind  is  the  very  newest  of  new  prayer* 
books,  "The  Dominican  Manual."  It  has  been  compiled  by  the 
Dominican  Nuns  of  Cabra  near  Dublin,  and  a  pioture  of  the  Convent 
fronts  the  titlepage.  It  is  an  admirable  collection  of  prayers  and 
devotions,  and  the  publishers,  Brown  and  Nolan,  have  brought  it  out 
with  extreme  care  and  skill.  The  binding  of  the  copy  before  us  is  a 
luxury  to  the  sight  and  touch. 

Here,  if  nowhere  else,  we  breathe  our  best  Christmas  wishes  for  all 
our  readers  and  writers  ;  and,  when  Christmas  is  over,  we  wish  them  a 
happy  New  Tear. 


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(    59    ) 


A  FAMILY  OF  FAMOUS  CELTIC  SCHOLARS. 

ON  the  eastern  shore  of  the  Bay  of  Killala,  about  ten  miles 
north  of  Ballina,  are  the  ruins  of  the  old  castle  of  Leacan. 
The  site  was  well  chosen,  for  it  was  to  be  the  home,  not  of  warriors, 
but  of  scholars,  and  so  they  built  their  stronghold  in  the  hearing 
of  the  sea,  fronting  the  gales  from  the  west  where  they  could  see 
from  the  windows  the  fierce  Atlantic  billows  spend  their  wintry 
rage  against  the  bleak  cliffs  of  Benmore.  And  many  a  fearful 
scene  of  shipwreck  they  must  have  witnessed,  when  the  dismantled 
vessels  flying  from  the  outer  gales  were  forced  to  seek  the  inhos- 
pitable shelter  of  Killala  Bay;  for  a  dangerous  bar  stretches 
across  its  mouth,  and  when  the  rising  tide  swept  up  the  estuary 
in  the  teeth  of  the  south-west  wind  and  the  Moy's  full  current, 
small  chance  of  escape  remained  for  the  doomed  ship,  when  she 
got  amongst  the  breakers  that  barely  covered  the  treacherous 
shoals. 

Yet  for  the  Celtic  scholar  that  old  castle  of  Leacan  is  classic 
ground.  It  was  the  home  of  a  family  of  learned  Irishmen, 
who,  with  the  single  exception  of  the  O'Clerys,  have  done 
more  for  Celtic  literature  than  any  other  race  of  our  ancient 
hereditary  ollaves.  We  propose  in  this  paper  to  give  a  short 
sketch  of  the  Clan  Firbis  of  Leacan,  and  of  their  literary  labours 
in  the  cause  of  Irish  history  and  archaeology. 

The  Clan  Firbis  came  of  an  illustrious  stock,  for  they  trace  their 
descent  to  Dathi,  the  last  pagan  king  of  Ireland,  who  is  said  to 
have  been  killed  by  lightning  at  the  foot  of  the  Alps.  Awley> 
his  son,  a  prop  in  battle,  brought  home  the  body  of  the  arch- 
chieftain  through  battles  and  marches  by  land  and  by  sea,  and 
buried  him  with  his  fathers  at  Cruachan  of  the  Kings,  where  the 
tall  red  pillar-stone  still  marks  the  hero's  grave.  The  original 
seat  of  the  family  was  in  Magh  Broin  between  Lough  Conn  and 
the  river  Moy — a  district  that  was  then,  and  is  still  known  as  the 
"  Two  Baos."  Gilla  Iosa  Mor  Mac  Firbis  describes  it  in  his  topo- 
graphical poem  as  a  sweet  and  fertile  land,  where  the  crops  grew 
quick  and  rich ;  it  was  embosomed  in  delightful  woods,  the  seat  of 
poets,  who  loved  to  wander  in  their  shade  and  compose  their  songs 
for  feast  and  battle.  The  Clan  Firbis  dwelt  near  the  margin  of  the 
lake  to  the  east,  as  well  as  on  the  opposite  side  in  fair  Glen  Nephin, 
Vol.  xrr.  No.  152.    February,  1886.  * r\^\o 

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60  A  Family  of  Famous  Celtic  Scholars. 

where  the  scarlet  hazel  dipped  its  hundred  tendrils  into  the  lake's 
pellucid  waters. 

It  was  probably  the  advance  of  the  English  settlers  towards 
the  close  of  the  thirteenth  century  that  drove  the  Clan  Firbis 
from  their  beloved  homes  around  the  lake  somewhat  further  to  the 
north  at  Rosserk,  which  was  the  extreme  limit  of  their  ancient 
territory.  This  place  was  originally  called  Bos  Scarce,  the  ros,  or 
wooded  promontory,  of  the  Virgin  Searc,  whose  church  was  built 
thereon.  The  primitive  edifice  of  the  virgin  saint  has  disappeared, 
but  its  site  is  occupied  by  the  ruins  of  a  small  but  very  beautiful 
abbey,  which  John  O'Donovan  thought  was  built  about  five  cen- 
turies ago.  He  was  nearly  right,  for  Father  Mooney,  tho 
Franciscan  Chronicler,  tells  us  that  "  Rosserk  was  founded  in  the 
fifteenth  century  by  a  chieftain  of  the  Joyces,  a  powerful  family 
of  Welsh  extraction,  remarkable  (as  they  are  still)  for  their 
gigantic  stature,  who  settled  in  West  Connaught  in  the  thirteenth 
century." 

The  site  was  certainly  well  chosen  on  a  promontory  running 
into  the  river  Moy,  "  the  stream  of  speckled  salmons."  A  graceful 
square-built  tower  of  blueish  stone,  as  in  most  of  the  Franciscan 
churches,  surmounted  the  centre  of  the  sacred  edifice,  which 
sees  itself  reflected  in  the  waters  of  the  river,  and  commands 
a  magnificent  prospect  of  all  the  surrounding  country — the  dark 
irregular  range  of  the  Ox  mountains  to  the  east,  to  the  south- 
west Hephin's  stately  form  throwing  at  evening  its  shadow  over 
the  waters  of  Lough  Conn,  while  far  to  the  north  the  eye  wanders 
over  river,  and  bay,  and  swelling  waves,  and  frowning  cliffy  out 
to  the  boundless  blue  of  the  Atlantic.  The  Clan  Firbis  are  described 
by  Gilla  Iosa  Mor  MacFirbis  in  1418*  as  poets  of  Hy  Amhalgaidh 
( Awley)  of  Rosserk.  Whence  we  may  conclude  that  in  the  begin- 
ning of  the  fifteenth  century  the  family  had  already  left  Magh 
Broin  and  were  then  established  at  the  old  abbey  on  the  western 
bank  of  the  Moy  just  where  the  river  begins  to  widen  to  an  estuary. 
How  long  they  remained  here  cannot  be  exactly  determined. 
Probably  the  Joyces  who  founded  the  Franciscan  abbey  in  the 
fifteenth  century  drove  them  across  the  river,  for  the  Welsh  giants 
were  men  of  war  and  blood  who  knew  no  law  but  force.  But  then  if 
they  expelled  Clan  Firbis  they  brought  in  the  Franciscans  and 
built  them  that  beautiful  abbey  at  Rosserk,  and  endowed  it  with 
a  share  of  the  lands  plundered  from  the  harmless  bards  and 

*  Hy  Fiaihrach,  page  287. 

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A  Family  of  Famous  Celtic  Scholars.  6l> 

ollaves  of  Tyrawley.  True,  indeed,  the  western  shore  of  the 
river  was  fertile  and  "  quick-growing/9  whilst  the  eastern  shore 
towards  the  sea  was  bleak  and  bare ;  but  it  was  good  enough  for 
the  mere  Irish,  and  they  ought  to  be  thankful  that  the  strong- 
handed  Welshmen  of  Tirawley,  the  Barretts,  Lynotts,  and  Joyces, 
left  them  so  much  of  their  ancient  inheritance.  A  worse  day  was 
to  come  when  both  victors  and  vanquished  were  overwhelmed  in  a 
common  ruin,  and  the  troopers  of  Cromwell  became  lords  of  all. 
Yet  although  the  O'Dowd  himself,  by  ancient  right  the  ruler  of 
these  territories,  was  robbed  of  all  his  lands  in  Tyrawley,  and 
henceforward  confined  to  Tireragh,  he  gave  a  new  grant  to  the 
hereditary  historians  of  his  family,  not  so  fertile  or  so.  wide 
indeed  as  their  ancient  inheritance,  but  large  enough  to  maintain 
them  in  competence  and  with  a  dignity  becoming  their  high  office. 
Here  it  was  by  the  shore  of  the  bay  that "  the  brothers  Ciothruaidh 
and  James,  sons  of  Diarmaid  Caoch  MacFirbis,  aided  by  their 
cousin  John  Og,  the  son  of  William,  built  the  castle  of  Leacan 
Mac  Firbis,  in  the  year  of  the  age  of  Christ,  1560."*  And  there 
it  was  they  wrote  books  of  history,  annals,  and  poetry ;  and  more- 
over kept  a  school  of  history  long  before  that  castle  was  built. 
So  the  family  must  have  crossed  the  Moy  from  Eosserk  many 
years  before  1500,  and  established  themselves  at  Leacan,  although 
the  great  stone  castle  was  not  built  for  their  protection  down  to 
the  stormy  period  at  which  Elizabeth  commenced  her  reign.  Here 
it  seems  they  continued  to  reside  until  the  Cromwellian  settlement. 
Then  the  Castle  of  Leacan  came  within  the  mile  line  of  territory 
all  round  the  province  of  Connaught,  which  was  planted  by  Crom- 
wellians  in  order  to  deprive  the  natives  of  all  access  to  the  sea. 
And  so  Duald  Mac  Firbis,  the  last  and  greatest  scholar  of  that 
ancient  race,  was  driven  from  his  ancestral  home,  his  lands  were 
confiscated,  and  he  himself  became  a  wanderer  and  a  beggar 
depending  for  his  daily  bread  on  the  bounty  of  the  stranger. 
When  he  was  an  old  man  bowed  down  with  the  weight  of  eighty 
years,  he  was  one  night  stopping  in  a  wayside  inn  at  Dunflin* 
in  the  parish  of  Screen,  county  Sligo.  A  young  gentleman  of  the 
name  of  Crof ton,  one  of  a  family  enriched  by  the  plunder  of  the 
old  Irish  proprietors,  came  into  the  shop  and  began  to  take 
some  improper  freedoms  with  a  young  girl  behind,  the  counter. 
She  tried  to  stop  his  advances  by  pointing  to  the  old  gentleman  in 
the  inner  parlour,  who,  perhaps,  overheard  what  was  taking  place, 

*  Hy  Fiaohrach,  page  167. 

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62  A  Family  of  Famous  Celtic  Scholars. ' 

and  uttered  some  remonstrance.  Thereupon  the  licentious  savage 
seized  a  large  knife,  and,  rushing  at  the  old  man,  stabbed  him  to  the 
heart.  And  so  the  last  of  our  great  Irish  scholars  was  foully 
murdered  in  cold  blood  by  a  young  gentleman  of  the  county  Sligo. 

The  Clan  Firbis  were  for  many  centuries  at  once  bards, 
brehons,  and  historians  to  their  kinsmen  the  O'Dowds,  the  heredi- 
tary princes  of  Tireragh,  and  Tyrawley.  In  this  capacity  they 
held  large  freehold  estates,  they  exercised  considerable  power, 
and  discharged  various  functions.  As  hereditary  historians  they 
kept  an  accurate  and  faithful  record  of  the  descent  and  subdivi- 
sions of  the  various  families,  of  the  territories  assigned  to  each, 
the  privileges  which  they  claimed,  as  well  as  the  charges  to  which 
they  were  liable:  They  were  present  in  the  battles  of  the  clans  to  be 
witnesses  of  the  prowess  of  the  chiefs ;  they  sang  the  praises  of 
the  victors,  and  recorded  the  names  and  deeds  of  those  who  had 
fallen  on  the  field:  These  songs  they  chanted  at  the  banquet  of 
the  chiefs  when  the  field  was  won,  and  stimulated  the  clansmen  to 
battle  by  recounting  the  great  deeds  of  their  ancestors  and  the 
wrongs  inflicted  by  the  enemy  which  it  was  their  duty  to  avenge. 

Then  when  family  disputes  arose,  or  private  wrongs  were  to  be 
remedied,  it  was  the  duty  of  the  annalist  to  divide  and  limit 
the  territory  of  each  family,  for  he  alone  had  the  custody  of  the 
records  that  fixed  their  titles,  and  he  alone  was  sufficiently  trained 
in  the  complex  code  of  the  Breon  law  to  fix  the  eric  or  compen- 
sation for  the  wrong  done. 

Moreover,  at  the  inauguration  of  the  O'Dowd,  MacFirbis  always 
played  an  important  part.  The  Irish  sub-kings  were  solemnly 
inaugurated  on  the  summit  of  some  green  hill  under  the 
open  sky,  with  the  principal  chiefs,  and  the  clergy,  and  the 
people  assembled  round  about  them.  This  ceremony,  in  the  case 
of  the  O'Dowd,  generally  took  place  on  Carn-Amhalgaith,* 
which  is  supposed  to  be  the  hill  of  Mullagh-carn,  not  far 
from  Killala,  on  the  western  bank  of  the  Moy.  We  have  an 
account  of  this  most  interesting  ceremony  written  by  one  of  the 
Clan  Firbis. 

First  of  all,  it  seems,  when  the  chiefs  and  the  coarbs  of  the 
principal  churches  and  all  the  people  had  selected  their  future 
ruler,  who  was  that  member  of  the  royal  family  best  qualified  in 
their  estimation  for  the  office,  MacFirbis  read  for  the  prince  elfect 
a  summary  of  his  duties  and  privileges  as  contained  in  the  interest-* 

:  *  See  Ey  Fiachrach,  page  489. 

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A  Family  of  Famous  Celtic  Scholars.  63 

ing  work  called  the  "  Institutions  of  a  Sing  "  (Teaguso  High)  of 
which  a  manuscript  copy  still  exists.*  According  to  O'Sullivan 
Bearef  the  prince  elect  was  then  required  to  swear  that  he  would 
observe  these  ordinances,  and,  above  all,  that  he  would  preserve  the 
rights  and  liberties  of  the  Church,  and  if  necessary,  shed  his  blood 
in  its  defence.  Mass  was  then  celebrated,  and  the  white  wand  of 
inauguration  was  solemnly  blessed. 

It  was  the  high  privilege  of  MacFirbis  to  bring  the  body  of 
this  white  wand  over  the  head  of  the  new  prince,  who  stood  with 
sword  ungirt,  then  to  present  it  to  him,  as  the  symbol  of  kingly 
authority,  and  solemnly  salute  him  by  name  as  The  O'Dowd. 
O'Caomhain,  the  representative  of  the  senior  family  of  the  tribe, 
next  pronounced  the  name,  and  after  him  all  the  coarbs,  and  all  the 
chiefs  pronounced  the  same  name  and  offered  their  homage  to  the 
new  ruler.  The  people  then  took  up  the  name  in  one  loud  shout  of 
approval,  and  the  white  rod  was  broken  to  signify  that  all  authority 
thenceforward  centered  in  the  O'Dowd.  This  white  rod  was  the 
symbol  of  authority  from  the  most  ancient  times ;  its  whiteness 
and  straightness  were  the  emblems  of  the  purity,  truth,  and  recti- 
tude of  the  ruler.  A  sword  would  imply  the  power  of  life  and 
death,  but  the  rod  signified  that  the  ruler  meant  to  govern  his 
people  as  a  father  does  his  children,  and  that  they  would  be  so 
docile  and  obedient  that  the  ruler  would  need  no  other  weapon 
to  govern  them.  The  prince  elect  had  previously  put  off  his 
sword  and  cloak  to  give  greater  significance  to  this  ceremony. 
Sometimes,  too,  one  of  the  sub-chiefs  put  off  his  sandals  in  token 
of  obedience,  and  threw  a  slipper  over  the  head  of  the  new  chief 
for  good  luck,  but  these  ceremonies  were  not  everywhere 
observed.  Lastly,  the  new  chief  turned  round  three  times  back- 
wards and  forwards  in  honour  of  the  Holy  Trinity,  looking  out 
over  his  territory  and  his  people,  as  their  divinely  chosen  father 
and  protector,  and  then  the  ceremony  was  complete. 

Of  course  a  banquet  followed — drink  and  feasting,  and  song. 
The  privilege  of  first  drinking  at  this  royal  feast  was  given  by  The 
O'Dowd  to  O'Caomhain,  the  senior  representative  of  the  tribe,  but 
O'Caomhain  might  not  taste  the  cup  until  he  had  first  given  it 
to  the  poet  MacFirbis  to  drink,  where  he  sat  at  the  right  hand  of 
his  king.  Moreover,  O'Dowd  gave  to  O'Caomhain  the  weapons, 
battle-dress,  and  steed,  which  he  was  wont  to  ufte  before ;  and 
O'Caomhain  in  turn  presented  his  own  battle-harness  to  M'Firbis 
the  pfoet. 

*  Library  of  Trinity  College,  H.  1, 17.  f  Historia  Oath. 

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(H  -4  Family  of  Famous  Celtic  Scholars. 

.  As  might  be  expected,  Clan  Firbis  produced  several  distin- 
guished scholars  who  have  rendered  most  important  services  to  our 
Celtic  literature.  The  references  to  the  family  in  ancient  times 
are  few  and  brief,  for  with  very  striking  modesty  these  great 
annalists  make  little  reference  to  themselves.  From  other  sources, 
however,  as  well  as  from  incidental  references  in  their  own  books, 
we  gather  the  following  summary  of  their  literary  history. 

The  earliest  reference  dates  from  a.d.  1279,  when,  according  to 
the  Four  Masters,  Gilla  Iosa  MorMacFirbis,  ollaveof  Tireragh,died. 
Gilla  Iosa — servant  of  Jesus — and  Gilla  Iosa  Mor,  were  favourite 
names  with  the  Mac  Firbis  family,  and  show  that  their  learning 
was  inspired  and  elevated  by  a  truly  Christian  spirit.  He  was 
succeeded  be  another  Gilla  Iosa  Mac  Firbis,  probably  his  son, 
whose  death  is  assigned  to  1301,  and  who  is  described  in  the  quaint 
language  of  the  translators  of  the  old  annals  of  Clonmacnoise, 
"  as  chief  chronicler  of  Tyrefeaghrach,  wonderful  well-skilled  in 
histories,  poetry,  computation,  and  many  other  sciences.1'  This 
wonderful  scholar  was  succeeded  in  his  office  by  Donnach 
Mao  Firbis,  who  died  in  1376,  and  who  is  described  in  more  mode- 
rate language  as  "  a  good  historian."  This  Donnach  was  one  of 
the  compilers  of  the  great  work  called  the  Yellow  Book  op 
Lkacan  to  which  we  shall  presently  refer.  Three  years  later,  in 
1379,  they  record  the  death  of  Firbis  Mac  Firbis,  a  "  learned 
historian  "  who  no  doubt  also  aided  in  the  compilation  of  the  same 
great  work,  although  no  special  mention  is  made  of  his  name. 
Then  in  1417  we  have  recorded  the  death  of  another  Gilla  Iosa 
Mor  Firbis,  the  son  of  the  above  named  Donnach,  who  according 
to  Duald  MacFirbis,  was  "  chief  historian  to  O'Dowd  of  Tireragh, 
and  composed  a  long  topographical  poem  on  the  tribes  and  districts 
in  the  ancient  territories  of  his  ancestors."  This  is  the  work 
which,  under  the  title  of  Hy  Fiachrach,  has  been  most  ably  edited 
by  John  O'Donovan,  and  published  by  the  Irish  Archaeological 
Society  in  1844. 

Several  members  of  the  family,  too,  became  ecclesiastics,  and 
under  date  of  1450,  Archdale  tells  us  that "  Eugene  O'Cormyn 
and  Thady  Mac  Firbis,  eremites  of  the  order  of  St.  Augustine, 
received  a  grant  of  the  lands  of  Storma  in  Tyrawley  from  Thady 
O'Dowd,  to  erect  a  monastery  thereon  under  the  invocation  of  the 
Holy  Trinity ;  and  Pope  Nicholas  V.  confirmed  the  same  by  a 
Bull  dated  the  12th  of  December,  1454."  Then  we  have  the 
entry  of  the  erection  of  Leacan  Castle  in  1560,  to  which  we  have 
already  referred.    But  the  following  year  a  great  calamity  befell 


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A  Family  of  Famous  Celtic  Scholars.  65- 

Oiothruadh,  the  principal  builder  of  the  castle,  for  the  Annals  of 
Lough  Ce  tell  us  that €t  Naisse,  the  son  (probably  of  this)  CicL 
thruadh,  the  most  eminent  musician  that  was  in  Erinn,  was 
drowned  in  Lough  Gill,  near  Sligo — and  also  his  wife,  the  daugh- 
ter of  M'Donogh,  with  some  other/'  who  likely  accompanied 
them  in  the  same  boat 

Fortunately  for  our  Celtic  literature  and  history,  many  of  the 
great  works  composed  by  the  Clan  Fir  bis  still  survive,  although 
not  yet  published. 

First  of  all  we  have  the  great  compilation  called  the  Yellow 
Book  of  Lkacan  (Leabhar  Buidhe  Lecain)  preserved  in  Trinity 
College  Library,  and  classed  H.  2.  16.  This  immense  work  con- 
tains some  500  pages  of  vellum  manuscript,  and  was  not  com- 
posed, but  rather  transcribed  from  existing  materials  so  early  as 
1390,  by  Donnach  and  Gilla  Iosa  MacFirbis  to  whom  we  have 
already  referred.  O'Curry  tells  us  in  his  " Lectures"  that  it 
begins  in  its  present  condition  with  a  collection  of  family  and 
political  poems  mostly  referring  to  the  great  Connaught  septs — 
the  O'Xellys,  O'Connors,  &c,  &c,  as  well  as  to  the  O'Donnells  of 
Donegal,  who  were  neighbours  of  Tir  Fiachrach  in  the  north — 
the  ancient  boundary  between  the  two  tribes  being  the  Codhnach 
river  which  flows  into  the  sea  close  to  Columcille's  monastery  at 
Drumcliff,  under  the  shadow  of  Benbulbin,  four  miles  to  the  north 
of  Sligo.  O'Curry  says,  however,  that  these  pieces  formed  no  part 
of  the  original  work.  Then  we  have  some  early  monastic  rules  of 
great  interest  for  the  ecclesiastical  historian  written  in  verse- 
some  of  which  have  been  published  in  the  Irish  Ecclesiastical 
Record,  1864-66  from  copies  made  by  O'Curry  himself .  These 
are  followed  by  a  great  variety  of  legendary  and  historical  pieces, 
like  the  battle  of  Magh  Rath  (Moyra)  and  the  voyages  of  Maelduin 
in  the  Atlantic  Ocean,  which  it  is  unnecessary  to  particularize  here, 
but  which  are  exceedingly  valuable  for  the  topographical  and  histo- 
rical information  which  they  contain.  Some  of  these  tracts  have  been 
already  published,  but  several,  almost  equally  valuable,  still 
remain  in  manuscript. 

The  second  great  work  which  we  owe  to  the  Clan  Firbis  is  the 
Book  of  Leacan,  a  distinct  compilation,  composed  some  26  years 
later,  and  mostly  in  the  handwriting  of  Gilla  Iosa  Mor  Mac  Firbis. 
It  is  a  still  larger  work,  containing  more  than  600  pages  of  fine 
vellum  manuscript,  but  its  contents,  though  highly  valuable,  are 
almost  identical  with  the  contents  of  the  famous  Book  of  Bally- 
mote,  from  which  it  was  probably  copied,  at  least  in  part.    The 

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W  A  Family  of  Famous  Celtic  Scholar** 

most  original  and  therefore  the  moat  valuable  tract  in  the  entire 
work  is  that  to  which  we  have  already  referred  to  as  the  "  Tribes 
and  Customs  of  Ht  Fiachrach  "  published  by  the  Irish  Archaeo- 
logical Society.  These  two  great  works  sufficiently  prove  that  the 
historians  of  Tyrawley  must  have  had  a  perfect  acquaintance  with 
our  entire  Celtic  literature,  and  were  indeed  wonderfully  well  skilled 
"  in  histories,  poetry,  computation,  and  many  other  sciences." 

Next  we  have  the  writings  of  Duald  MacFirbis,  the  most 
learned  and  the  most  unfortunate  of  his  name  and  race.  His 
entire  life  was  a  chronicle  of  woe  for  himself,  for  his  family,  for 
his  religion,  and  for  his  country. 

Duald  M'Firbis  (Dubhaltach)  was  the  son  of  another  Gilla 
Iosa  Mor,  and  was  born  at  his  father's  castle  of  Leacan  Mac  Firbis 
about  the  year  1580.  If,  as  O'Curry  tells  us,  he  went  to  the  south 
of  Ireland  to  study  so  early  as  1595,  he  must  have  been  at  least 
fifteen  years  old  at  that  time.  The  latter  was  the  year  in  which 
O'Donnell  made  a  fierce  raid  from  Donegal  on  Southern  Connaught, 
burning  and  pillaging  all  before  him.  The  schools  of  Thomond 
were  at  this  period  very  famous,  and  attracted  native  scholars  from 
all  parts  of  Ireland.  The  MacEgans  of  Redwood  Castle  in  Lower 
Ormond  were  the  most  famous  Brehon  lawyers  in  Ireland,  and 
here  young  MacFirbis  came  to  perfect  himself  in  the  study  of  Celtic 
jurisprudence.  The  O'Davorensof  Burren,  county  Clare,  had  also 
a  famous  school  of  law  and  poetry,  and  MacFirbis  spent  some  time 
there  also,  po  that  he  neglected  no  opportunities  of  mental  culture, 
which  could  render  him  better  qualified  to  discharge  the  high  func- 
tions of  hereditary  ollave  in  his  native  territory.  That  he  profited  to 
the  full  by  these  opportunities  is  abundantly  manifest  from  his  writ- 
ings. Not  only  was  he  a  distinguished  Irish  scholar  and  antiquarian 
but  he  was  also  familiar  with  the  Latin  and  English  languages,  and 
what  is  more  extraordinary  still,  and  furnishes  a  striking  proof  of 
the  excellence  of  our  Celtic  schools  even  at  that  unhappy  period, 
he  was  very  well  acquainted  with  Greek  also.  For  in  his  copy 
of  Cormac's  Glossary  in  T.C.D.  MacFirbis  explains  the  meaning 
of  several  of  the  Irish  terms  by  giving  in  the  margin  the  Latin 
and  frequently  the  Greek  equivalents,  written,  too,  in  Greek 
characters,  and  with  an  accuracy  and  freedom  which  prove  that 
beyond  doubt  the  writer  must  have  not  only  understood  Greek 
but  was  well  able  to  write  that  language ! 

It  was  probably  in  the  school  annexed  to  the  Collegiate  Church 
of  St.  Nicholas,  in  Galway,  that  M'Firbis  acquired  his  familiarity, 
such  as  it  was,  with  the  English  and  classical  languages.  Certainly 

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A  Family  of  Famous  Celtic  Scholar*.  67 

very  little  English  was  spoken  on  tha  banks  of  the  Mo y  about  the 
year  1590,  for  the  Welsh  and  Norman  invaders  of  Tyrawley  had 
become  more  Irish  than  the  Irish  themselves  in  customs,  dress, 
and  language.  But  Galway  always  continued  to  be  an  English 
city ;  English  was  always  spoken,  although  not  perhaps  exclusively 
by  the  citizens ;  and  the  writings  of  Lynch  and  O'Flaherty  prove 
that  beyond  doubt  the  study  of  the  classical  languages  was  culti- 
vated with  a  high  degree  of  success  in  the  City  of  the  Tribes. 

At  any  rate  MacFirbis  himself  tells  us  that  it  was  in  the  Col- 
lege of  St.  Nicholas,  Galway,  about  the  year  1650,  "  during  the 
religious  war  between  the  Catholics  of  Ireland  and  the  heretics  of 
Ireland,  Scotland,  and  England,"  that  he  composed  his  great 
work  on  "  The  Branches  of  Relationship  and  the  Genealogical 
Ramifications  of  every  colony  that  took  possession  of  Erin  traced 
from  this  time  up  to  Adam  .  .  .  together  with  a  Sanctilogium,  and 
a  catalogue  of  the  Monarchs  of  Erin ;  and  finally  an  Index  which 
comprises  in  alphabetical  order  the  surnames  and  the  remarkable 
places  mentioned  in  this  book  which  was  compiled  by  Dubhaltach 
MacFirbis  of  Leacan,  1650,"  "  and  the  cause  of  writing  the  books," 
adds  the  pious  author,  "  is  to  increase  the  glory  of  God,  and  for 
the  information  of  people  in  general."  In  those  evil  days  of 
Ireland,  it  was  not  love  of  fame  or  gain  that  inspired  her  scholars 
to  transmit  to  posterity  the  history  of  their  bleeding  country — it 
was  the  nobler  purpose  of  God's  glory,  and  the  instruction  of 
their  countrymen  in  the  better  days  that  yet  might  dawn  on  their 
native  land. 

The  autograph  of  this  splendid  compilation  is  in  the  possession 
of  the  Earl  of  Roden,  and  a  copy  made  by  O'Curry  is  in  the  R.I. 
Academy.  It  is  a  most  valuable  repertory  of  the  highest  autho- 
rity on  all  those  subjects  of  which  it  treats,  and  has  been  univer- 
sally recognised  as  such  by  our  ablest  Irish  scholars.*  In 
1666  MacFirbis  drew  up  an  abstract  of  his  larger  work  including 
some  additional  pedigrees,  of  which  work  O'Donovan  tells  us  there 
were  two  copies  to  be  had,  although  he  himself  had  seen  neither 
of  them. 

MacFirbis  compiled  two  other  most  valuable  works,  no  copies 
of  which  are  now  known  to  .be  extant,  on6  a  Glossary  of  the 
Ancient  Laws  of  Erin,  the  loss  of  which  is  irreparable,  and  also 
a  Biographical  Dictionary  of  the  writers  and  distinguished 
scholars  of  ancient  Erinn,  "of  which,"  says  O'Curry,  "unfortu- 
nately not  even  a  fragment  has  yet  been  discovered." 

*  See  Dr.  Petrie's  Paper  in  Vol.  XVIII.  of  the  Transactions  of  the 
B.  I.  Academy. 

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68  A  Family  of  Famous  Celtic  Scholars. 

Historian  and  lawyer  as  lie  was  by  virtue  of  liis  office, 
Mac  Firbis  was  also  a  poet,  and  O'Curry  tells  that  he  himself  had 
in  his  possession  two  poems  of  considerable  pretension  written  by 
MacFirbis,  in  praise  of  his  patrons  the  O'Shaughnessys  of  Gort, 
who  were  sprung  from  the  same  stock  as  MacFirbis  himself.  He 
was  also  the  author  of  a  collection  of  Annals  which  are  quoted  by 
his  patron  and  friend,  Sir  James  Ware,  but  which  are  not  now 
known  to  exist. 

We  have,  however,  a  most  valuable  summary  of  our  Annals 
distinct  from  the  former  work  compiled  by  MacFirbis,  and  lately 
published  in  the  series  of  the  Master  of  the  Rolls.  It  is  known 
well  to  students  of  Irish  history  as  the  Chronicon  Scotorum, 
a  work  of  great  value  for  its  historical  accuracy.  The  author 
apologises  for  its  meagre  character,  and  tells  us  that  it  is  merely 
an  abstract,  or  compendium  of  the  history  of  the  Scots,  omitting 
all  lengthened  details.  Still  it  is  of  great  value  and  contains 
several  novel  scraps  of  important  historical  information.  In  its 
present  form  it  only  comes  down  to  the  year  1135,  and  unfortu- 
nately even  in  that  period  a  large  deficiency  occurs  from  722  to 
805. 

The  life  of  Duald  MacFirbis  corresponds  with  the  most  calami- 
tous period  of  Ireland's  chequered  history.  When  he  was  yet  a 
boy  he  heard  of  the  disastrous  defeat  at  Kinsale,  in  1601.  The 
Flight  of  the  Earls  and  the  confiscation  of  Ulster  followed  a  few 
years  later,  about  the  time  when  he  had  arrived  at  man's  estate.  He 
doubtless  shared  in  the  bright  hopes  that  the  Confederation  of 
1641  inspired  in  the  breasts  of  his  countrymen ;  but  he  saw  all 
these  bright  promises  fade  away  before  the  breath  of  the  angel  of 
discord.  He  saw  Cromwell's  fiery  sword  sweep  over  the  land,  and  the 
persecuted  Catholics,  who  had  hoped  so  much  from  the  Restoration 
again  doomed  to  disappointment  by  the  perfidy  of  the  faithless 
Stuarts. 

There  is  no  sadder  chapter  in  literary  history  than  the  fate  of 
this  old  man  in  his  declining  years.  To  his  honour  be  it  for  ever 
remembered,  Sir  James  Ware,  to  whom  Irish  literature  owes  so 
much,  was,  while  he  lived,  the  patron  and  friend  of  Mac  Firbis. 
He  received  him  into  his  own  house  in  Dublin  ;  he  employed  him  in 
the  work  which  he  loved — translating  and  elucidating  the  old 
manuscripts  of  his  forefathers.  But  that  noble  knight,  as 
Mac  Firbis  justly  calls  him,  died  in  1666,  and  once  more  the  old 
man  became  a  pauper  and  an  outcast.  He  dare  not  remain  in 
_  Dublin  without  a  friend  to  protect  him,  for  he  would  be  perse- 
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My  Sang  and  I.  69 

cuted  as  a  Catholic,  and  perhaps  persecuted  as  a  scholar.  So  like 
every  hunted  animal,  he  strove  to  reach  his  old  home  again,  and 
travelled  all  the  long  ragged  road  from  Dublin  city  to  the  hanks 
of  Moy.  But  the  stranger  was  in  the  home  of  his  fathers,  and 
the  friends  of  his  youth  were  like  himself  persecuted  paupers ; 
even  O'Dowd,  the  chieftain  of  his  race,  was  without  lands  and 
without  castles.  For  a  few  years  more  the  venerable  scholar  lived 
on  amidst  the  scenes  of  his  childhood  a  broken-down  old  man, 
until,  as  Eugene  Curry  thinks,  when,  striving  to  make  his  way  on 
foot  to  Dublin  to  visit  the  son  of  Sir  James  Ware,  he  met  his 
tragic  fate  in  a  wayside  inn  at  the  hands  of  a  savage  and  licentious 
youth. 

Yet,  in  spite  of  poverty  and  persecution  during  all  these 
disastrous  years,  Mac  Firbis  devoted  his  best  energies  to  the  preser- 
vation and  illustration  of  his  country's  history,  "  for  the  glory  of 
God,  and  the  instruction  of  his  countrymen  in  future  years." 
May  you  rest  in  peace,  faithful  son  of  unhappy  Ireland,  and  in 
the  better  days  that  are  dawning  upon  us,  we  may  hope  that  your 
countrymen  will  tenderly  remember  the  name  of  Mac  Firbis,  and 
look  with  reverence  on  the  ruined  walls  of  Leacan  Castle. 

^  John  Healy. 


MY  SONG  AND  I. 

ALOFT,  above  the  sea,  by  the  tall  cliff's  winding  path, 
A  flitting  foot  treads  down  the  sweet  wild  thyme, 
When  its  fragrant  bloom  runs  over  all  the  mossy  rath 
And  tides  are  full  and  the  year  is  in  its  golden  prime. 

No  flush  of  pomegranate,  no  breath  of  rich  musk  rose, 

Or  reddens  or  perfumes  these  regions  where 
My  song  and  I  go,  singing,  while  the  keen  north  wind  blows 

And  birds  fly  low,  and  the  widening  skies  are  cool  and  fair. 

But  with  the  fresh  sea-odours  floating  towards  us  here 
And  wild  thyme's  scent,  out  pressed  by  climbing  feet, 

And  gleam  of  grey  wings  winnowing  through  the  sunlight  clear, 
Travel  my  song  and  I,  in  a  lone  world  cold  and  sweet. 

R.  M^-> 

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70    ) 


MR.  BAKER'S  DOMESTIC  SYSTEM. 

A  STORY. 

MRS.  Ball  and  Mrs.  Baker  had  put  the  little  Balls  and  the 
little  Bakers  to  bed,  and  for  the  first  time  during  the  winter 
season  were  spending  an  evening  together.  It  seemed  very  cosy 
and  sociable  to  sit  down  in  front  of  the  fire,  with  its  bed  of  glow- 
ing coal,  and  talk  familiarly  of  matters  interesting  to  wives  and 
mothers.  And  so  thought  Mrs.  Ball,  who  affirmed  that  her  little 
ones  had  been  so  cross  and  wayward  that  day,  that  she  needed  just 
such  a  quiet  period  to  calm  her  irritated  nerves  ;  which  remark 
was  seconded  by  Mrs.  Baker,  who  added,  that  Frank,  Frederick, 
and  Fanny  had  behaved  shockingly  all  day,  wearying  her  patience 
sadly,  and  preventing  her  from  sewing,  reading,  or  even  thinking. 

"  I  don't  know  that  my  boys  and  girls  differ  from  other  boys 
and  girls,  but  I  get  very  tired  with  the  care  of  them  all  the  day," 
said  Mrs.  Ball,  sighing  softly. 

"  And  so  do  I ;  yet  my  husband  thinks  the  duty  a  very  slight 
one,"  returned  Mrs.  Baker,  sympathetically. 

"That  I  do!"  said  the  person  alluded  to,  emphatically, 
abruptly  entering.  "  That  I  do ;  and  as  soon  as  I  get  on  my 
slippers,  I'll  give  you  a  good  reason  for  it.  Good  evening,  Mrs. 
Ball.  I  didn't  intend  to  be  a  party  to  your  innocent  remarks,  but 
the  last  one  of  my  wife's  I  couldn't  avoid  hearing ;  an  assertion* 
by  the  way,  which  I  am  ready  to  make  again." 

'•  As  she  rendered  your  views  so  correctly,  I  presume  no  harm 
is  done,"  laughingly  returned  Mrs.  Ball. 

"  Discussing  children,  were  you  not,  and  the  tremendous  bur- 
den of  care  and  trouble  they  impose  upon  tender  mothers  ?  ** 
inquired  Mr.  Baker,  half  seriously. 

'*  We  stand  convicted  of  the  heinous  crime.  Pray,  what  have 
you  to  say  against  it  P  "  retorted   both  Mrs.  Ball  and  Mrs.  Baker. 

"  Nothing,  certainly,  of  the  right  of  every  lady  to  talk  about 
what  pleases  her ;  but  a  great  deal  against  the  erroneous  opiniona 
you  maintain.  The  truth  is,  Mrs.  Ball,  the  truth  is,  wife,  you 
magnify  your  motherly  duties  ;  you  look  at  them  through  a  glass 
which  increases  their  dimensions  wonderfully.  Tou  make  a 
mountain  of  a  molehill  and  then  imagine  you  are  climbing  up  its. 


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Mr.  Baker's  Domestic  System.  71 

ragged  sides  when  you  are  simply  walking  on  level  ground.  You 
complain  because  it  has  become  habitual ;  you  talk  of  fatigue  and 
nervousness  because  every  other  mother  does  the  same.  There 
isn't  one  woman  in  ten  who  knows  how  to  take  care  of  children 
properly." 

"Have  you  any  experimental  knowledge  of  the  matter P" 
asked  Mrs.  Ball. 

"  No,  indeed  !  he  knows  nothing  at  all  about  it,"  cried  Mrs. 
Baker. 

"  I  see  I  am  in  the  minority,  but  I  don't  mean  to  be  frightened 
out  of  my  argument,"  quoth  Mr.  Baker.  "  In  the  first  place,  I 
advance  that  women  don't  understand  children." 

Mrs.  Ball  and  Mrs.  Baker  looked  volumes. 

"  They  make,"  he  continued,  undaunted  by  two  pair  of  sharp 
eyes,  "  a  great  fuss  about  a  very  little  matter.  Children  do  not 
need  continual  talking  to ;  one  word  is  as  good  as  ten,  if  rightly 
applied.  Begin  right,  and  there  need  be  no  trouble  in  managing 
them.  When  they  cry,  make  them  be  quiet ;  when  they  want 
anything,  make  them  wait  on  themselves." 

"  What  if  they  can't  walk  P  There  is  supposed  to  be  a  period 
in  a  child's  life  when  its  feet  are  of  no  possible  service,"  remarked 
the  listening  wife,  in  a  tone  the  least  bit  malicious. 

"  As  I  have  two  such  critical  listeners  it  behoves  me  to  choose 
my  words  more  carefully.  To  amend  my  remark,  teach  children 
to  wait  upon  themselves  as  soon  as  they  can  walk." 

"  A  difficult  theory  to  put  into  practice,"  said  Mrs.  Ball,  with 
the  air  of  one  confident  of  the  soundness  of  her  position. 

"  Not  at  all,  madam,  I  assure  you ;  nothing  easier." 

"Did  you  ever  try  itP"  pursued  the  lady,  surveying  her 
masculine  theorist  as  though  she  compassionated  his  ignorance. 

"  Why— no — not  exactly,"  he  stammered,  "  but  that  doesn't 
militate  against  the  facts  of  the  case.  I'm  confident  I  can  take  care 
of  children  without  tiring  myself,  or  thinking  it  a  burdensome 
duty.    I  should  start  right,  Mrs.  Ball." 

The  man  in  the  dressing-gown  and  slippers  contemplated  the 
fire  with  great  apparent  satisfaction. 

"  Then  why  not  take  your  wife's  place  to-morrow,  and  let  her 
spend  the  day  with  me  P  "  queried  the  mother  of  the  four  little 
Balls.  "  She  needs  relaxation ;  and  as  you  maintain  that  children 
are  no  trouble  when  rightly  managed,  they  will  not  interfere  with 
your  happiness  in  any  degree.    You  oan  *  start  right/  and  I  have 

Vol.  xiv.  No.  152.  7 

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72  Mr.  Baker9 8  Domestic  System. 

no  doubt  everything  will  go  on  swimmingly.     What  say  you  to 
my  proposal  P  " 

Mr.  Baker  eyed  her  attentively  for  a  moment,  then  slowly 
replied :    , 

"  I  don't  know  but  it's  reasonable.  Should  you  like  it  P"  he 
added,  turning  to  his  wife,  who  had  been  exchanging  speaking 
glances  with  Mrs.  Ball. 

He  received  a  hearty  assent. 

"  Then  it's  settled ;  I'll  keep  house,  and  you  shall  go  visiting. 
I'm  not  particularly  wanted  at  the  business  premises,  and  it  will 
be  a  fine  chance  to  write  several  letters  and  look  oyer  a  book  of 
accounts.  I'll  wager  a  new  hat  against  a  new  bonnet — and  the 
bonnet,  with  your  permission,  shall  belong  to  Mrs.  Baker — that  I 
will  get  through  the  day  grandly,  without  fretting  and  scolding 
or  worriment  and  weariness,"  was  the  brave  rejoinder. 

"  You  hear,  Mrs.  Baker— a  beaver  against  a  two  guinea  bonnet. 
I  wish  I  was  as  sure  of  a  new  velvet  as  you  are  P  "  exclaimed  the 
merry  Mrs.  Ball. 

"  Don't  be  too  positive !  a  hat  may  be  called  for  before  you  are 
aware  of  it,"  briskly  retorted  Mr.  Baker.  "  I'll  demonstrate  my 
system,  or  confess  myself  in  error." 

Mrs.  Ball  smiled  in  a  peculiar  way,  spoke  a  few  words  in  an 
under-tone  to  her  ally,  and  bade  her  friends  good-night. 

Mr.  Baker  was  awakened  at  a  late  hour  the  following  morning 
by  baby  Fanny,  who  was  amusing  herself  by  pulling  his  whiskers. 
Glancing  at  his  watch,  he  found  it  was  past  eight  o'clock.  Where  was 
Mrs.  Baker  P     Why  were  not  the  older  children  dressed  and  out  of 
the  way,  instead  of  jumping  about  the  room,  clamouring  for  their 
clothes  P   Mr.  Baker  did  not  make  a  very  elaborate  toilet.     He  ran 
down  stairs,  found  a  good  fire  in  the  stove,  a  pot  of  hot  coffee,  and 
the  table  spread ;  but  the  party  instrumental  in  bringing  about  this 
comfortable  state  of  things  was  non  est.     He  went  through  the 
rooms,  glanced  into  the  parlour,  looked  into  the  outhouse,  into  the 
cellar,  and  called  "Ellen"  several  times.      No   response  being 
given,  he  was  driven  to  the  conclusion  that  his  better  half  had 
taken  an  early  departure  for  the  mansion  of  Mrs.  Ball,  leaving 
him  to  get  a  "  right  start "  without  her  interference.     He  was 
rather  unprepared  for  this  punctual  introduction  to  domestic  life, 
but  being  somewhat  of  a  philosopher  Mr.  Baker  set  about  having 
the  best  of  it.     He  was  reflecting  upon  the  propriety  of  refresh- 
ing the  inner  man,  when  two  small  voices  were  heard  at  the  top  of 
^  the  stairs : 


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Mr.  Baker' 8  Domestic  System.  73 

"  I  want  to  be  dressed — I  want  to  be  dressed !  " 

These  were  certainly  reasonable  requests,  and  hurrying  up  to 
the  chamber,  he  collected  together  an  armful  of  juvenile  garments, 
and  bidding  the  little  ones  follow,  he  went  back  to  the  warm  room 
below.  He  was  progressing  very  slowly  in  enrobing  the  miniature 
men  (for  Mr.  Baker,  like  many  other  husbands,  had  but  an  im- 
perfect idea  of  children's  needs),  when  a  scream  caused  him  to 
drop  a  boy  suddenly  and  run  to  the  assistance  of  baby  Fanny, 
who,  indignant  at  being  left  alone,  had  crept  from  the  low  bed  and 
started  to  descend  the  stairs ;  but  an  unlucky  mishap  caused  her  to 
come  bumping  down  on  her  head  and  shoulders,  to  the  dismay  of 
her  father.  Fortunately,  she  was  not  much  hurt ;  a  little  sooth- 
ing and  a  lump  of  sugar  soon  dried  up  her  tears. 

"  I  wonder  why  children  can't  stay  where  they're  put !  " 
thought  Mr.  Baker,  as  he  wrapped  a  blanket  about  the  baby,  and 
sat  her  in  a  high  chair,  preparatory  for  breakfast.  "  But  I'll  get 
started  right  directly." 

He  went  on  with  the  dressing  business  so  summarily  disturbed. 
What  a  number  of  small  shirts,  dresses,  pinafores,  socks,  and  shoes 
the  young  Bakers  wore !  And  the  pinning  and  buttoning  that  his 
awkward  fingers  so  bunglingiy  achieved,  was  by  no  means  a  trifling 
item.  And  then  Frank  and  Freddy  helped  him  by  "turning 
round  *'  the  wrong  way,  and  thrusting  their  arms  everywhere  but 
into  the  right  sleeve.  The  shoes  seemed  several  sizes  too  small  for 
the  feet  they  were  to  cover ;  yet,  by  much  pulling  and  working 
the  task  was  completed.  Meantime,  Miss  Fanny  was  occupying 
her  leisure  moments  by  strewing  the  sugar  about,  crumbling  the 
bread,  and  spreading  butter  on  the  cloth. 

"  How  can  a  man  look  behind  him,  I  wonder !  "  muttered  Mr. 
Baker,  surveying  the  disordered  table;  but  the  complaints  of ( two 
older  boys  (  who  now  made  their  appearance)  that  they  should  be 
late  for  school,  made  eating  a  paramount  duty.  Banging  his  five 
charges  about  the  family,  board,  he  stationed  himself  at  the  head 
to  attend  to  their  wants.  He  had  no  previous  experience  in  that 
department,  and  therefore  was  astonished  at  the  number  of  pieces 
of  bread  he  was  called  upon  to  "  spread,"  and  the  quantity  of 
drink  he  was  requested  to  prepare. 

"And  Mrs.  Baker  does  this  three  times  a  day!  Why,  I 
shan't  get  a  chance  to  eat  a  mouthful ! "  mentally  ejaculated  the 
husband  and  father,  going  to  the  closet  to  replenish  the  butter- 
plate. 

When  he  returned,  three  of  his  heirs  were  quarrelling  over  the 


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74  Mr.  Baker  8  Domestic  System. 

last  piece  of  bread.    Mr.  Baker  thought  it  time  to  "  lay  down  " 
his  rules  and  "  get  a  good  start "  for  the  day. 

"  Children/'  he  said,  with  as  much  dignity  as  though  he  were 
delivering  a  speech  at  the  vestry,  "  children,  your  mother  has  gone 
away,  and  will  not  return  till  night ;  but  I  shall  stay  at  home  with 
you,  and  everything  will  go  on  as  usual.  I  trust  you  will  make 
no  noise,  and  prove  obedient  children." 

These  words  were  undoubtedly  heard,  but  no  perceptible  effect 
was  manifest.  The  listeners  were  very  quiet,  however.  There- 
was  no  doubt  that  he  had  "  hit  the  nail  on  the  head."  Encouraged 
by  this  "  good  start,"  Mr.  Baker  cleared  away  the  dishes  with 
alacrity,  pausing  only  to  ask  William  and  Charles  why  they  didn't 
go  to  school. 

"  'Cause  we  ain't  ready,"  replied  both  at  once. 

"  Why  not  P" 

"  Mother  brushes  our  clothes,  and  puts  on  our  collars,  and  gives- 
us  apples  for  lunch,  and  reads  over  our  lessons  with  us,  and  picks, 
out  the  hard  places  on  the  maps,  and  mends  our  pencils,  and  sews 
up  the  holes  in  our  pockets — I've  got  a  great  one  in  mine — and 
bends  our  hats  into  shape — mine's  all  jammed  now — and " 

"  Stop — that'll  do,"  interrupted  Mr.  Baker,  frightened  at  the 
length  of  the  list  of  offices  required  of  him. 

It  was  nothing  to  wield  a  clothes-brush,  but  to  adjust  collars- 
was  another  affair.  He  pinned  and  unpinned,  fixed  and  unfixed  ; 
sometimes  the  subjects  of  his  operations  declared  that  he  "  pricked," 
sometimes  they  insisted  that  he  "  pinched."  But  the  poor  collars- 
fared  the  worst  of  the  three.  By  the  time  they  were  satisfactorily 
adjusted,  Mrs.  Baker  would  have  consigned  them  to  the  wash-tub 
without  an  instant's  hesitation.  Apples  were  easily  found,  but 
they  needed  wiping ;  whereupon  the  officiating  manager  sent  one 
of  the  boys  after  a  cloth — the  first  clause  of  his  new  system  beings 
to  make  children  wait  upon  themselves.  Soon  Charley  made  hia 
appearance  with  one  of  his  mother's  damask  napkins.  Mr.  Baker 
said  "pshaw!"  not  very  amiably,  and  went  for  a  proper  article 
himself.  As  for  the  lessons  and  the  "  hard  places  on  the  map,'" 
they  were  left  to  the  care  of  themselves.  The  "hole  in  the 
pocket "  could  not  be  so  easily  disposed  of,  for  Charley  declared 
that  his  pencils  would  slip  through  if  it  wasn't  "  run  up."  Up 
stairs  again  went  the  patient  father,  to  consult  Mrs.  Baker's  work- 
box.  After  marbles,  nails,  knives,  strings,  fish-hooks,  and  a 
dubious  pocket-handkerchief  had  been  emptied,  and  the  receptacle 
for  this  heterogeneous  mass  duly  turned  (Charley  had  gathered  up 

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Mr.  Baker  8  Domestic  System.  75 

one  corner  and  tied  a  piece  of  twine  around  it),  Mr.  Baker  pro- 
ceeded to  repair  the  rent  with  something  greatly  resembling  a 
darning-needle.  . 

"  Running  down  "  would  have  been  as  intelligible  as  "  running 
up  "  to  the  puzzled-looking  man  who  had  placed  the  owner  of  the 
pocket  in  a  chair  that  he  might  be  reached  more  conveniently!  and 
now  stood  contemplating  the  ."  hole"  with  evident  misgiving.  If 
he  had  been  about  to  sew  up  a  wound  in  the  boy's  flesh,  he  could 
not  have  taken  the  first  stitch  with  less  reluctance.  His  needle 
unthreaded  twice  (it  took  him  in  the  first  instance  five  minutes  to 
thread  it),  and  once  rolled  out  of  his  large  fingers  to  the  floor, 
where  it  required  father  and  two  sons  to  find  it ;  but  after  Mr. 
Baker  had  worked  himself  into  a  profuse  perspiration  by  his 
efforts,  Charley  was  of  the  opinion  that  it  would  "  hold :  "  of 
which  his  progenitor  was  by  no  means  certain.  Next  the 
"jammed"  hat  was  produced.  Mr.  Baker  manipulated  it  this 
way  and  that,  but  its  crushed  proportions  defied  his  skill ;  it  went 
"  jammed"  to  school.  Flattering  himself  that  nothing  more  was 
wanted,  the  demonstrator  of  the  new  system  wiped  his  face,  and 
breathed  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"  What  are  you  waiting  for  now  P  "  he  demanded,  impatiently, 
perceiving  that  the  boys  still  lingered,  as  if  wishing,  yet  half 
afraid  to  speak. 

"  School's  been  begun  most  an  hour ;  must  have  an  excuse ; 
get  punished  for  being  late,  if  we  don't,"  spoke  up  Charley. 

"  I've  half  a  mind  to  make  you  go  without  one,  for  spoiling 
hats  and  breaking  shoe-strings,"  responded  the  impatient  father. 
**  However,  one  of  you  go  and  get  the  inkstand,  and  I'll  write  one ; 
I  can't  wait  upon  you  any  longer." 

A  boy  bounded  up  the  staircase,  seized  the  inkstand  and 
bounded  down,  spilling  half  its  contents  over  a  smaller  boy. 

"  Why  can't  boys  (and  he  might  have  added  men)  carry  any- 
thing without  slopping?"  grumbled  Mr.  Baker,  surveying  the 
black  circle  which  the  inkstand  left  on  the  table-cloth.  "  I  wish 
1  had  gone  myself !  " 

The  remedy  for  lateness  being  put  upon  paper,  Charles  and 
William  went  on  their  way  rejoicing,  to  the  great  satisfaction  of 
the  senior  Baker. 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that  the  three  smaller  juveniles  were 
inactive  during  his  relaxation  of  surveillance.  Rare  reasoners  are 
-children.  Perceiving  no  watchful  eyes  upon  them,  they  commenced 
amusing  themselves  in  their  own  way.     Their  chubby  hands  and 

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76  Mr.  Baker's  Domestic  System. 

the  bed  of  ashes  under  the  grate  were  soon  in  contact ;  while  tiny 
heaps  began  to  multiply  upon  the  floor  under  their  nimble  fingers, 
between  which  they  made  railroads,  placing  chips  thereupon  for 
cars,  and  a  large  piece  of  coal  for  an  engine. 

That  his  eyes  could  not  be  everywhere  was  fully  obvious ;  that 
children  required  more  watching,  much  stricter  attention  than  he 
had  before  imagined,  was  another  evident  conclusion ;  and  that 
the  labour  of  attending  to  the  wants  of  the  five  young  Bakers 
was  not  inconsiderable  nor  to  be  performed  without  fatigue,  he 
was  also,  just  then,  inclined  to  admit.  He  had  assuredly  "  started 
right,"  yet  for  some  singular  reason,  his  system  didn't  work  tohia 
mind.  It  had  met  with  unexpected  obstacles,  and  was  rapidly 
running  ofE  the  track.  Half  the  day  was  nearly  spent.  What 
had  he  accomplished  P  Nothing — absolutely  nothing  ;  or  at  least, 
that  was  the  word  he  felt  sure  Mrs.  Baker  would  have  chosen  to- 
apply  to  his  morning's  work.  * 

Still  there  was  yet  time  to  redeem  his  mistakes ;  between  that 
and  night,  he  promised  himself  to  take  a  new  tack ;  to  triumph- 
antly walk  over  the  difficulties  relating  to  the  management  of 
children. 

After  proper  reprimands,  the  trio  of  offenders  were  placed 
upon  chairs,  where  they  remained  perched  until  Mr.  Baker's  back 
was  turned,  when  they  slid  down  noiselessly  to  look  about  for 
amusement.  The  culinary  department  required  attention ;  five 
hungry  children  would  soon  be  wanting  dinner ;  he  proposed  try- 
ing his  skill  at  a  soup.  Mrs.  Baker  made  very  good  soup,  but  he 
was  confident  he  could  make  a  better.  He  was  some  time  in  getting 
the  materials  together,  and  once  he  came  very  near  scalding  one 
of  his  male  heirs,  who  persisted  in  disregarding  his  directions  to 
"  keep  off ; "  but  the  necessary  articles  were  at  length  collected  in 
a  pot  and  put  to  simmering  over  the  fire,  which  he  made  of  such 
intensity  that  he  burned  his  compound. in  less  than  half  an  hour. 
That  accident  didn't  add  to  the  fineness  of  its  flavour,  which  he- 
was  a  little  suspicious  of  before,  from  the  fact  that  he  had,  in  an 
unlucky  moment,  substituted  ginger  for  pepper.  But  congra- 
tulating himself  "  that  the  children  wouldn't  taste  it,"  he 
poured  his  preparation  into  a  large  tureen,  and  seating  his  noisy 
boys  and  girls,  who  were  clamouring  for  "  something  to  eat,"  he 
proceeded  to  divide  the  spoils.  All  being  duly  served,  Mr.  Baker 
stirred  the  soup  thoroughly,  and  helped  himself  to  a  ladle  full. 
The  first  mouthful  was  smart— the  next  smarter — the  third 
smartest.     That  was  owing  to  the  ginger.     But  then  ginger  was. 


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^  Mr.  Baker' 8  Domestic  System.  77 

highly  sanitive,  and  prized  for  many  purposes ;  that  was  no  dis- 
paragement to  the  soup.  His  mouth  felt  uncomfortably  warm, 
while  an  incessant  call  for  "drink"  kept  him  trotting  busily 
between  the  pump  and  the  table. 

But  though  he  slily  wet  his  own  lips  with  the  cooling  liquid, 
he  was  not  going  to  retire  vanquished  from  the  field,  albeit  the 
bitter  mingled  with  the  sweet.  He  made  another  dive  at  the 
bottom  of  the  dish,  bringing  up  a  suspicious-looking  object,  which 
he  deposited  upon  his  plate  for  closer  inspection.  It  proved  to  be 
one  of  Fanny's  shoes ;  and  it  was  neither  nice  nor  tender.  T/iat 
did  not  increase  his  appetite,  or  add  to  his  admiration  of  that 
young  lady's  behaviour.  No  one  participated  in  his  discovery  but 
Charley,  whose  astonished  exclamations  were  cut  short  by  a  frown 
from  his  father,  who  dexterously  pushed  the  dripping  shoe  between 
the  tureen  and  a  large  pitcher,  that  eight  other  eyes  might  not 
detect  it. 

"  What  torments  children  are ! "  mentally  ejaculated  Mr. 
Baker,  wiping  his  moist  forehead  after  dinner.  "  It  isn't  possible 
the  little  plagues  act  like  this  all  the  time  !  If  they  do,  I  shouldn't 
blame  the  women  for  committing  suicide  or  going  crazy  !  Here 
I've  questioned  the  mischievous  imps,  and  not  one  of  them  knows 
anything  about  the  confounded  shoe.  I've  a  good  mind  to  whip 
them  all  and  put  them  to  bed ! '' 

But  the  performance  of  this  threat  would  prevent  a  satisfactory 
demonstration  of  his  system ;  therefore  it  was  given  up  as  inex- 
pedient. 

Stepping  out  a  moment  for  something  which  he  needed,  he 
charged  his  charges  (Charles  and  William  having  gone  to  school 
again)  to  be  very  quiet  and  do  no  mischief  in  the  interim.  A 
sheer  waste  of  words !  Mischief  lurked  in  their  eyes,  smiled  on 
their  lips ;  mischief  was  largely  represented  in  their  compositions, 
and  it  must  have  an  outlet.  Scarcely  had  the  door  closed  behind 
the  retiring  Mr.  Baker,  than  the  trio  started  on  a  voyage  of  dis- 
covery. Frank,  being  the  oldest,  led  the  expedition,  which  took 
for  its  first  field  of  operations  the  kitchen  closet.  Pushing  a  chair 
before  him  to  render  less  difficult  the  pleasant  task  in  prospective, 
he  mounted  it  and  took  a  peep  into  the  sugar-bowl.  Generously 
giving  his  brother  and  sister  two  small  lumps  apiece,  he  stuffed  his 
own  mouth  to  repletion,  casting,  meantime,  longing  glances  at  a 
jar  of  jam  beyond  his  reach.  A  logical  mind  had  Master  Frank 
for  a  boy  of  five.  He  thought  that  if  he  had  a  high  chair,  or  was 
as  tall  as  Charley,  he  could  touch  the  coveted  article ;  the  next 


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78  Mr.  Baker'*  Domestic  System. 

link  in  the  chain  of  his  reasoning  was,  how  could  he  make  the 
chair  he  was  in  higher  P  A  square  box  stood  on  the  shelf  on  a 
level  with  his  feet.  He  jumped  down,  pushed  it  on  to  the  chair, 
and  climbed  up  again.  Now  for  the  jam !  His  little  mouth  and 
two  other  little  mouths  watered  for  the  delicious  compound.  He 
knew  he  was  "  doing  mischief,"  but  that  very  knowledge  made 
him  more  eager  to  touch  the  earthen  jar  ;  for  is  it  not  a  truism 
that  stolen  fruit  is  the  sweetest  P  Standing  on  his  toes,  and  stretch- 
ing his  body  as  much  as  convenient,  he  was  about  grasping  the 
treasure  when  down  came  boy,  box,  and  chair — chair  uppermost. 
The  young  climber  was  not  heavy,  yet  his  weight  was  sufficient  to 
break  the  slight  box  cover,  plunge  his  feet  into  a  layer  of  choice 
honeycomb,  slide  the  box  off,  and  overturn  the  chair. 

Much  surprised  at  this  unlooked  for  manifestation,  but  not  a 
bit  hurt,  Master  Frank  essayed  to  rise.  That,  however,  promised 
to  be  a  matter  of  some  difficulty,  inasmuch  as  both  feet  were  firmly 
imbedded  in  the  sticky  substance.  '  By  struggling  he  extricated 
himself,  and  the  expectant  ones,  having  no  scruples  against  the 
contact  of  honey  and  leather,  set  about  regaling  themselves  in  a 
very  primitive  mode  with  their  fingers.  Freddy,  stretching  over 
Fanny  for  his  share,  dropped  a  liberal  allowance  on  her  hair  and  his 
own  pinafore,  and  then  tried  to  repair  his  mistake  by  rubbing  both 
with  his  hands,  to  the  detriment  of  the  silky  hair,  which  assumed 
at  every  brush  of  his  fingers  a  still  gummier  aspect. 

In  the  midst  of  this  sweet  repast  Mr.  Baker  returned.  One 
glance  at  Frank's  feet,  Frederic's  apron,  and  Fanny's  head,  includ- 
ing their  hands  and  faces,  and  the  dripping  box  upon  the  floor, 
explained  the  nature  of  what  presented  itself.  He  shook  one, 
boxed  a  second,  and  slapped  a  third,  before  recollecting  that  he  was 
opposed  to  physical  punishment.  And  Fanny's  hair!  What 
would  Mrs.  Baker  say !  How  should  he  get  the  honey  off  P  He 
was  undecided  where  or  how  to  begin.  He  had  just  taken  her 
locks  in  hand  when  the  door-bell  was  heard  to  ring.  *  Commanding 
the  offenders  on  no  account  to  leave  the  room,  he  started  for  the 
door.  It  was  a  lady  whose  acquaintance  he  valued.  He  shook 
hands  with  her  heartily,  and  invited  her  in.  The  lady  was  polite, 
but  eyed  her  glove  furtively.  Our  founder  of  a  new  system 
thought  of  his  hands  and  apologised,  telling  some  out-of-the-way 
story,  extremely  improbable. 

The  disagreeable  subject  was  hardly  disposed  of  before  the 
three  victims  of  honey  appeared,  bashfully  sliding  in,  one  after 
the    other;  Frank  with  his  shoes  sticking  to  the  Brussels  at 


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31  r.  Baker  8  Domestic  System.  79 

every  step,  Frederic  with  dripping  apron,  and  Fanny  in  her  night- 
dress (Mr.  Baker  hadn't  been  able  to  find  time  to  put  on  more 
presentable  apparel)  and  bare  feet  (one  shoe  was  under  the  stove 
drying). 

The  father  of  this  interesting  group  peremptorily  ordered  them 
out,  and  wished  himself  in  Japan.  Was  there  ever  a  man  so 
harassed  by  adverse  circumstances  and — children  P  The  lady  not 
finding  her  host  very  talkative,  and  somewhat  flurried  in  manner 
withal,  took  leave  very  soon,  thinking  the  little  Bakers  not  at  all 
attractive,  and  shockingly  neglected  ;  while  the  disturbed  master 
of  the  mansion  took  his  way  to  the  kitchen,  lamenting  the 
inauspicious  chance  that  had  shown  her  his  progeny  in  such  a 
plight.  Mrs.  Baker  would  never  forgive  his  agency  in  the  unfor- 
tunate occurrence,  priding  herself  as  she  did  on  the  general  clean- 
liness and  tidiness  of  her  offspring.  What  could  possess  the 
little  torments  to  come  trooping  in  unbidden,  with  their  fingers  in 
their  mouths  and  said  mouths  very  dirty  P  To  plague  him,  doubt- 
less, and  make  their  mother  miserable  when  she  came  to  hear 
of  it. 

It  was  somewhere  in  the  vicinity  of  four  o'clock  when  Mr. 
Baker  got  time  to  sit  down.  His  limbs  ached  with  weariness,  and 
his  head  felt  fit  for  nothing  but  a  pillow.  Yet  desirous  of  show- 
ing his  wife  that  he  could  find  leisure  for  what  he  had  proposed 
doing,  he  produced  pen,  ink,  and  paper,  and  commenced  a  letter ; 
writing  to  begin  with,  with  one  eye  on  the  sheet  and  the  other  on 
the  children,  who  were  penitently  sitting  in  a  row,  just  still  enough 
to  be  meditating  more  mischief.  The  indefatigable  but  unfortu- 
nate Baker  was  soon  absorbed  in  his  occupation,  forgetful  of  the 
responsibility  resting  upon  him.  Casually  raising  his  eyes  at 
length,  he  beheld  Fanny  with  a  suspicious-looking  vial  to  her  lips, 
and  hastened  to  take  it  from  her.  Unlucky  child  !  it  was  labelled 
"  Laudanum." 

The  effect  of  this  terrific  discovery  upon  the  nervous  system  of 
the  father  was  most  startling.  It  was  the  grand  climax  of  his 
experiment — fatal  alike  to  that  and  to  Fanny.  The  vial  was  empty, 
but  still  emitted  a  flavour  of  the  execrable  drug  which  it  had  con- 
tained. No  time  was  to  be  lost.  The  paternal  Baker  caught  up 
his  hat  and  ran  for  medical  aid  at  a  speed  truly,  indicative  of  the 
present  emergency.  He  was  tearing  by  Mr.  Ball's  house  at  a 
frantic  pace,  when  he  was  hailed  by  Mrs.  Baker,  who,  from  the 
window  of  her  friend's  dwelling,  had  perceived  his  hurried 
advance. 


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80  Mr.  Baker" 8  Domestic  System. 

"  What,  for  pity's  sake,  is  the  matter,  Mr.  Baker  P  "  cried  the 
anxious  wife. 

"  Fanny — laudanum — doctor !  "  replied  he,  much  out  of  breath. 

"There's  not  a  drop  of  laudanum  in  the  house,"  added  Mrs. 
Baker. 

"The  vial — the  vial!"  exclaimed  the  husband,  in  tones  so 
tragical  that  they  were  frightfully  Othello-like: 

"  There  was  nothing  in  it." 

"  Are  you  sure  P  " 

Mrs.  Baker  assured  him  that  she  was  perfectly  sure,  and  the 
alarmed  father  began  to  live  again.  After  enjoying  the  revulsion 
of  feeling,  he  said,  with  as  much  coolness  as  he  could  summon  : 
"  Perhaps  you  are  thinking  of  coming  home,  and,  as  I  am  here,  I 
may  as  well  wait  for  you." 

Mrs.  Baker  was  quite  ready  to  accompany  the  founder  of  the 
new  system  for  the  training  of  children. 

"  I'm  afraid,  Mr.  Baker,  that  you  didn't  get  a  good  start,"  she 
remarked,  on  getting  home,  and  glancing  at  the  children  and  their 
various  occupations. 

There  were  traces  of  the  day's  march  of  confusion,  disorder, 
and  destruction  in  every  direction  the  prudent  housewife  could 
turn  her  eyes.  Mr.  Baker  shrank  into  himself  in  absolute  dismay ; 
and  when  he  saw  Mrs.  Ball  glide  in,  with  an  expression  mercilessly 
quizzical,  he  attempted  to  make  a  desperate  rush  out  of  the 
premises.  But  he  couldn't  do  it ;  his  egress  was  prevented  by 
Mrs.  Baker  and  Mrs.  Ball. 

"  The  system  is  demonstrated !  "  quoth  Mrs.  Ball. 

"  And  a  wonderful  system  it  is  ! "  said  Mrs.  Baker.  u  There's 
no  honey  on  Fanny's  hair ;  no  blacking  on  Franky's  face ;  no  ink 
on  Freddy's  hands ;  no  ashes  on  the  floor ;  no  grease  nor  butter 
on  the  table-cloth ;  no  chips  on  the  stove ;  no  water  on  the  chairs ; 
no  crumbs  on  the  shelves;  no  confusion  and  disorder  anywhere 
prevalent !  How  stupid  women  are,  not  to- know  how  to  take  care 
of  children,  and  how  silly  they  are  to  complain  of  troubles  and 
trials,  when  the  whole  thing  can  be  reduced  to  a  science !" 

"  What  kind  of  hat  do  you  prefer,  Mr.  Baker — an  ordinary 
beaver,  or  a  Wide-awake  P  "  queried  his  fairer  half.  « 

"A  Wide-awake  most  probably,"  asserted  Mrs.  Ball. 

Mr.  Baker  said  not  a  word,  but  nervously  drew  forth  his 
pocket-book  and  took  therefrom  two  sovereigns  which  he  handed 
to  his  wife  with  a  subdued  manner  that  was  very  significant ;  it 
was  an  appropriation  for  a  new  velvet  bonnet — an  eloquent   con- 
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The  Lord's  Messenger.  81 

f 6881011  of  the  fallibility  of  his  system.  An  elegant  piece  of  head- 
gear, which  attracted  much  attention,  appeared  in  the  Baker  pew 
the  next  Sunday. 

The  moral  of  the  story  is  obvious.  Woman's  life  is,  to  the 
majority  of  men,  a  profound  secret ;  they  know  little  of  its  trials. 
Its  cares,  labours,  and  perplexities  are  an  arcanum  so  deep  and 
mystical,  that  they  pass  on  through  the  trodden  way  of  existence, 
receiving  of  her  ministrations  without  pausing  to  ask  the  cost  of 
what  is  enjoyed  without  cessation  from  the  cradle  to  the  final 
resting-place  of  humanity. 


THE  LORD'S  MESSENGER. 

ALL  night  the  passionate  sobbing  of  the  rain 
Bade  me  arise,  and  let  some  angel  in  ; 
Fierce,  like  the  anguish  of  an  unshrived  sin, 
Rose  that  wild  summons  at  my  window-pane : 
I  stirred  not  in  my  fear ;  it  strove  again, 
And  yet  again,  its  weary  way  to  win 
Through  the  closed  casement — strove  with  wail  akin 
-  To  some  lost  soul  in  hell — alas,  in  vain ! 

Would  I  had  hearkened  I    Now  the  day  is  here, 
And  lo  !  one  cometh,  not  to  be  denied. 
"  The  Lord  have  pity  on  thy  bitter  need ! 
Last  night  He  sent,  while  death  held  poised  his  spear 
O'er  thy  beloved,  who  had  perchance  not  died, 

Hadst  thou  but  prayed ;— alas,  thou  wouldst  not  heed !" 

Evelyn  Pynb. 


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(    82     ) 


A  CONVERT'S  REMINISCENCE. 

AS  the  Jews  of  old  time  had  their  great  central  Temple,  in 
which  were  celebrated  those  more  solemn  rites  forbidden 
to  the  local  Tabernacles ;   so  we,  the  "  Anglo-Catholics  "  of  the 

"  Anglo- Catholic  "  stronghold  of could  boast  of  our  Temple ; 

whither,  at  certain  stated  seasons,  but  more  especially  on  the  great 
annual  "  Day  of  Atonement,"  we  were  wont  to  repair,  for  the  pur- 
pose of  participating  in  those  more  sacred  functions  denied  us 
nearer  home.  Let  not  my  reader  suppose,  natural  or  even  reason- 
able though  such  supposition  might  be,  that  our  "  Temple "  was 
known  either  as  St.  Paul's  Cathedral  or  Westminster  Abbey.  True ; 
we  had  grown  somewhat  less  ashamed  of  the  "  Protestantism  "  of 
the  Metropolitan  Cathedral,  since,  by  a  daily  celebration  of  the 
"  Holy  Communion  or  Lord's  Supper,"  it  had  given  us  occasion  to 
sing  "  Te  Deum "  for  the  "  restoration  to  England's  great 
Cathedral  of  the  daily  Sacrifice  of  the  Mass  ;  "  still,  spite  of  this 
step  in  the  right  direction,  it  was  only  a  step ;  and  although  of 
-course,  in  a  change  of  so  "  Catholic  "  a  nature,  we  read  prophecies 
of  still  greater  things  to  come,  we  did  so  only  in  the  sense  in  which 
the  fond  mother  may,  read  prophecies  of  the  future  orator  in 
the  first  whisperings  of  her  lisping  babe.  As  for  Westminster 
Abbey,  I  think  there  were  but  few  amongst  us  who  did  not  regard 
that  "  Home  of  Heresy  "  with  such  a  holy  horror,  that,  save  an 
occasional  pilgrimage  to  the  shrine  of  St.  Edward,  we  rarely  ven- 
tured within  its  unhallowed  walls. 

When  I  inform  my  readers  that  the  particular  functions  for- 
bidden to  the  "  local  Tabernacle  "  consisted  of  the  more  distinctive 
and  "  consoling  rites  of  the  Sister  Communion  of  Rome,"  they  will 
no  longer  wonder  that  we  found  our  "Temple"  in  neither  Protestant 
Cathedral  nor  Parish  Church,  but  in  a  certain  modern  conventual 
pile  known  as  "St.  Matilda's  Convent,"  or  in  presence  of  the 
weaker  brethren,  "  St.  Matilda's  Sisterhood.*'  Yes,  here  was  our 
"  Temple,"  the  dwelling-place,  as  of  fight  things,  so  of  right  names ; 
where  the  "  Mass "  was  no  longer  the  "  Celebration,"  where 
41  Vespers  "  ceased  to  be  "  Even  song,"  and  where  the  "  Virgin 
Mary  "  put  off  her  too  homely  attire  for  the  more  queenly  apparel 
of  "  Our  Blessed  Lady,"  for,  were  we  not,  here,  far  away  from  the 
tainted  atmosphere  of  our  "heretical"  Bishops,  those  naughty 

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A  Convert's  Reminiscence.  83- 

Bishops,  who  could  never  understand  that  candles  were  ordained 
for  other  purposes  than  that  of  dispelling  the  darkness  of  the  night ; 
who,  when  appealed  to  by  the  more  inconsistent,  compromising 
few,  would  persist  in  their  denial,  that  the  "  Church  of  England 
as  by  Law  Established  "  either  imposed  on  her  children  in  general 
the  duty  of  fasting,  or  upon  their  Lordships  in  particular  the 
power  of  dispensing ;  who  would,  in  a  word,  appear  to  go  out  of 
their  way  to  give  the  lie  to  the  teaching  of  those  who  were  never 
tired  of  telling  us,  their  "  spiritual  sons,"  that  they,  and  they  alone, 
were  the  true  expounders  of  the  doctrines  of  the  u  English  Branch 
of  the  Church  Catholic  P  "  Yes,  and  what  a  relief  too,  to  be  far 
away  from  Lord  Penzance  and  his  "  usurping  court,"  and  those 
"  arch-heretics,"  the  "  Church  Association,"  who  supplied  the  fuel 
for  the  fires  enkindled  by  the  Representative  of  Her  Majesty  sitting 
at  Westminster ;  indeed,  were  we  not  far  away  from  everybody 
and  everything,  that  might  or  could  come  between  us  and  that  full 
mid-day  blaze  of  Catholic  splendour,  in  whose  life-giving  heat  and 
light  we  might  bask  to  our  heart's  content  P  For  what  desire,  how- 
ever extravagant,  was  not  fulfilled  within  those  walls,  that  enshrined 
the  very  "  Holy  of  Holies  "  itself  P  Had  we  not  our  "  Benediction 
of  the  Sacrament  of  the  Altar  P"  Were  we  not  blessed  with 
"  Perpetual  Reservation  P  "  Did  not  the  sacred  cloisters  echo  to  the 
strains  of  the  ancient  Yesper  Chant  P 

In  a  word,  could  we  not  imagine  ourselves  enjoying  all  that 
even  Rome  could  give,  combined  with  that  which  Rome  could  not 
give — freedom  from  the  fetters  of  .her  own  "superstitions,"  re- 
surrection from  the  whited  sepulchre  of  her  own  "  corruptions  P  " 

Alas,  such  is  the  blinding  power  of  heresy ;  for  blinded  indeed 
we  were,  not  insincere,  but  believing  we  could  see  in  the  dark,  or 
rather,  not  knowing  we  were  in  the  dark.  How  strange  for  us  who, 
through  the  mercy  of  Heaven,  have  been  borne  aloft  from  the 
valley  of  dead  men's  bones,  to  the  Sion  of  life  and  light,  to  look 
down  upon  that  more  than  Egyptian  darkness,  and  to  tell  our- 
selves that  we  have  passed  through  it,  not  only  as  through  the 
"  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death,"  but  that  we  have  been  able  to 
say  of  it,  "  It  is  good  for  us  to  be  here,  here  will  I  dwell,  for  I  have 
chosen  it." 

I  have  made  allusion  to  the  great  "  Day  of  Atonement.'1  Be 
it  known,  then,  that  "  St.  Matilda's  Day  "  was  regarded  as  such, 
by  those  thirteen  or  fourteen  hundred  privileged  "  Catholics  "  who, 
on  that  day,  in  response  to  the  special  invitation  of  the  "  Reverend 
Mother,"  and  the  "  Father  Chaplain,"  found  themselves  gathered 


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84  A  Canverfs  Reminiscence. 

together,  at  the  shrine  of  the  "  Most  Holy/'  for  the  purpose,  among 
other  sacred  duties,  of  making  reparation  "  for  all  the  injuries  done 
to  our  Blessed  Lord  in  the  Adorable  Sacrament  of  the  Altar/'  by 
all  the  Eight  Reverend  Bishops,  most  of  the  Very  Reverend  Deans, 
Archdeacons  and  Canons,  the  great  majority  of  Vicars,  Rectors  and 
Curates,  nine  hundred  and  ninty-nine  out  of  every  thousand  of  the 
lay  portion  of  the  "  faithful " — in  a  word,  the  exceptions  so  few  as 
to  be  unworthy  of  notice,  by  the  whole  body  of  the  "  English  Branch 
of  the  Church  Catholic,  the  one  lawful  guardian  and  expounder  of 
Catholic  Truth,  within  these  realms."  "  I,  and  I  only,  am  left, 
and  they  seek  my  life  to  take  it  away,"  would  have  made  an  appro- 
rate  text  for  the  sermon  on  such  an  occasion. 

Besides  those  who  took  part  in  the  great  annual  pilgrimage, 
there  were  a  certain  more  highly  favoured  few  who  would  pay  this 
"  Fountain  of  refreshment  to  pilgrims  far  away  "  more  lengthened 
visits.  They  were,  for  the  most  part,  affiliated  to  the  "  Convent  " 
as  Associates  in  imitation  of  the  Third  Orders  of  the  Church. 
During  their  stay,  which  might  last  a  week  or  even  more,  as  the 
"  Convent "  itself  furnished  accommodation  only  for  the  "  lady  " 
portion  of  the  "  Associates/'  the  "  gentlemen,"  unless  invited  to 
partake  of  the  hospitality  of  the  "Father  Chaplain,"  would  "put 
up  "  at  the  little  old-fashioned  town,  about  two  miles  distant  from 
the  "Convent." 

Both  among  the  one  class  and  the  other,  I  boasted  many  friend  s, 
and,  whenever,  in  my  youthful  fervour  and  the  greatness  of  my 
romantic  love  for  the  Church  of  ancient  days,  I  ventured  to  express 
my  fears  that  our  efforts  to  restore  her  would  end  in  disappoint- 
ment, or  even  in  disaster,  I  was  reminded  that  I  had  not  yet  been  to 
"  St.  Matilda's."  There  I  should  learn  what  restored,  uncorrupted, 
primitive  Catholicism,  did  mean ;  there  I  should  behold,  not  the 
birth  of  good  things  indeed ;  for  the  English  Church  of  to-day, 
being  identical  with  the  English  Church  of  St.  Augustine  and  St. 
Thomas,  it  followed  that  the  old  English  Carthusians,  and  Bene- 
dictines, and  Friar8,were  as  truly  the  children  of  the  English  Church 
of  our  day,  as  of  their  own ;  but,  more  glorious  than  even  the  birth, 
which  brings  with  it  the  seeds  of  corruption  and  death,  I  should  be- 
hold the  resurrection  from  that  corruption,  and  from  the  death  to 
which  it  led.  I  resolved  to  make  my  first  pilgrimage  to  this  modern 
temple  of  ancient  wisdom,  there  to  see  with  my  own  eyes,  and  to 
hear  with  my  own  ears,  the  many  and  great  things  that  had  been 
told  me. 

Having  sought  and  obtained  a  letter  of  introduction  to  the 


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A  Converts  Reminiscence.  85 

" Father  Chaplain"   of  St.  Matilda's,  from  my  friend  "Father 

,"  I  set  out  for  my  journey,  on  a  fine  morning  about  the 

beginning  of  August  187 — . 

An  enthusiastic  youth  of  eighteen,  turning  his  back  upon  the 
dry  dreary  sands  of  the  desert  of  a  lifetime,  and  his  face  towards 
the  land  of  promise  ;  where,  instead  of  gall,  should  be  found  honey ; 
instead  of  ashes,  bread ;  where  the  sackcloth  should  be  exchanged 
for  the  garment  of  feasting  and  the  wailing  of  the. mourner  for  the 
song  of  the  victor.  Imagine,  gentle  reader,  if  you  can,  the  flush  of 
joy  and  pride  that  suffused  his  brow,  the  hope  that  illuminated  his 
soul,  as  with  the  rosy  hues  that  wake  the  summer-day ;  the  peace- 
ful restlessness,  I  had  almost  said,  of  that  journey  that  seemed  so 
l°ng>  yet  too  fruitful  of  joy  to  be  tedious ;  and  can  you  wonder  that 
he  found  no  time  to  give  admittance  to  the  dreadful  doubt,  that  did, 
through  the  mercy  of  heaven,  succeed  in  passing  the  open  portals 
of  later  days  P 

The  train  at  length  stopped  at  the  small  and  sleepy  station  of 
the  proportionately  small  and  sleepy  town  of  — — .  At  least,  I 
have  learnt  since  that  such  it  is ;  for  not  the  soul  of  Dante,  nor 
even  of  Shakespeare  himself,  could  have  painted  aught  half  so  fair 
as  the  picture  which  greeted  my  imagination,  perhaps,  rather  than 
my  eyes,  on  alighting  upon  that  platform,  on  that  sunny  August 
afternoon,  not  quite  ten  years  ago.  Was  it  then  really  come  to 
pass,  that  which  seemed  all  too  good  for  life  P  Could  it  be,  that,  in 
a  few  short  moments,  and  I  should  actually  enter  the  land,  which 
up  to  this,  had  found  a  place  in  my  imagination  only  as  the  land 
that  was  "  very  far  off  P  "  My  readers  will  appreciate  the  feeling ; 
the  feeling  that  refuses  to  believe  in  the  realization  of  any  long- 
anticipated,  long-desired  event.  The  day  at  length  dawns  and 
too  swiftly  brings  us  face  to  face  with  the  hour  we  have  not  had 
time  to  prepare  for ;  and,  in  our  bewilderment,  the  dreadful  doubt, 
whether  we  must  not  be  dreaming,  enters  our  mind ;  we  stagger, 
rub  our  eyes  to  make  sure  they  are  open,  and — thank  heaven  !  no ; 
parts  are  too  harmoniously  one,  the  march  of  events  is  too  clearly 
visible,  for  what  our  longing  eyes  at  last  see,  and  our  ears  hear,  to 
be  anything  but  the  reality  it  is.  True ;  life  has  few  such  happy 
surprises  in  store  for  her  mourning  children ;  but,  surely,  of  that 
few,  all  have  tasted. 

I  looked  about  me ;  and  I  think  there  was  not  a  single  official 
whom  I  did  not  regard  with  envy,  as  being  an  unconscious  Minister 
at  the  Shrine  of  the  Most  Holy. 

In  less  than  half  an  hour,  and  the  spires  of  "  St.  Matilda's  "  are 

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86  A  Converts  Reminiscence. 

pointing  with  hallowed  finger  to  that  heaven  whose  silent  preachers 
they  are  ;  and  not  ancient  Sion's  marble  domes  and  shining  turrets 
ever  rejoiced  the  heart  of  seer  or  prophet  more  than  that  first 
glimpse,  that  earnest  of  good  things  to  come,  rejoiced  the  heart  of 
that  poor  wanderer,  who,  like  some  storm-tossed  mariner,  whom  the 
darkness  has  made  its  victim,  took  the  island  of  quicksands  for  the 
land  that  was,  indeed,  still  "  very  far  off."     But,  it  was  night. 

And  now  the  Convent  is  reached.  My  hand  is  on  the  bell ; 
and,  oh,  what  music  echoes  and  re-echoes,  along  cloister  and  quad- 
rangle and  cloister  again,  to  be  taken  up  by  the  music,  hardly  les» 
joyous,  of  the  monastic  rattling  of  keys,  and  the  slow  soft  tramp,, 
tramp,  tramp,  of  the  solemn  lay-sister,  who  at  leogth  unbars  and 
throws  open  the  great  Gothic  door.  Yes ;  I  may  enter.  Reverently^ 
with  bowed  head  and  throbbing  heart,  I  obey.  I  am  ushered 
into  the  presence  of  the  "  sister-porter,"  who  smilingly  rises  to- 
receive  me.  Our  first  greeting  over,  I  remark,  with  tremulous 
accent,  that  I  believe  they  are  blessed  with  "  perpetual  reserva- 
tion." "  Yes,"  the  good  Sister  replies — "  we  could  not  live  with- 
out it." 

Behold,  gentle  reader,  in  these  words,  spoken,  I  verily  believe, 
in  sincerity  deep  as  ever  sent  martyr  to  the  stake,  the  raison 
d'Mre  of  this  paper.  Spite  of  my  anticipations,  unexpectedly 
wonderful  the  things  I  both  saw  and  heard,  during  my  sojourn  in 
that  strange  place ;  but  nothing  is  so  fresh  in  my  memory,  at  thia 
distance  of  well-nigh  ten  years,  as  those  heart-rending  words  of  that 
poor  woman. 

The  scene  is  before  me  as  I  write.  The  little  room,  with  its 
bare  white  walls  and  uncarpeted  floor,  the  small  wooden  table,  the 
couple  of  wooden  chairs,  the  high,  narrow,  Gothic  window,  and,  that 
which  always  furnishes  the  barest  room,  the  Crucifix  over  the  fire- 
place ;  but,  more  vividly  than  all,  the  pale  worn  face  of  that  mis- 
taken, misguided  woman,  and  the  thin  accent  of  that  silvery  voice, 
whose  every  word  told  unmistakably  of  the  high-bred  English 
lady,  the  child  of  English  refinement,  and  one  of  the  truest  children 
of  English  sincerity. 

"  We  could  not  live  without  it/'  She  was  filling  up  the  long 
hours  of  her  unwelcome  office  with  needlework,  and  as  she  uttered 
the  most  affecting  half-dozen  words  it  has  ever  been  my  lot  to 
give  ear  to,  she  looked  up  from  her  work ;  and  I  saw  that  the  pale- 
ness had  given  place  to  the  gentle  flush  of  joy,  the  eyes  were  shin- 
ing with  the  thoughts  the  tongue  could  not  utter,  a  smile  that 
spoke  of  rest  after  toil  was  playing  about  the  lips,  and  the  whole- 


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A  Convert? 8  Reminiscence.  87 

countenance  proclaiming  in  tones  too  loud  to  be  misunderstood, 
the  truth  of  her  earnestly  spoken  words. 

When  a  child  of  the  Church,  mindful  of  the  high  idea  which 
his  own  divinely-guided  Mother  has  of  her  awful  responsibility 
with  regard  to  religious  congregations,  and  more  especially  con- 
gregations of  women ;  how  careful  she  is  to  see  that  her  religious 
daughters  have  full  liberty  to  address  themselves  not  only  to  their 
own  superiors,  but  if  need  be,  to  their  Bishop,  or  even  to  Rome 
herself ;  how  jealous  she  is  about  admitting  them  to  life-long  vows ; 
how  only  those  institutes  she  has  approved,  only  those  rules  she 
has  sanctioned,  are  even  tolerated  ;  how  stringent  are  her  laws  in 
respect  of  visitation  of  convents  by  the  higher  superiors  for  the 
redress  of  possible  evils  and  for  the  solving  of  doubts  and  diffi- 
culties ;  when,  I  say,  a  child  of  the  Church,  mindful  of  the  con- 
stant and  loving  care,  and  even  anxiety  of  his  mother,  in  behalf 
of  her  religious  children,  remembers  such  institutions  as  that  to 
which  I  have  introduced  my  readers — the  self -ordained  Superiors, 
"  unsent,"  unprepared,  without  law  or  lawyer,  destitute  alike  of 
experience,  precedent,  and  tradition,  yet  wielding  the  sceptre  of  a 
power,  simply  absolute  and  final ;  and  those  forty  or  fifty  women, 
their  subjects,  bound  over,  in  conscience,  to  obey  the  fiat  of  that 
power,  simply  unique  on  this  earth,  in  virtue  of  their  vow;  would 
he  not  prove  himself  all  undeserving  of  his  own  deliverance  from 
the  house  of  bondage,  did  not  a  holy  indignation  fire  his  breast, 
and  make  him  almost  yearn  for  the  right  to  do  what  that  One 
alone  can  do,  who  said  :  "  It  is  written,  My  house  shall  be  called 
the  house  of  prayer,  but  ye  have  made  it  a  den  of  thieves  P  " 

Alas,  that  the  innocent  and  generous  should  be  decoyed  from  the 
substance  that  can  never  be  stolen,  to  the  shadow  that  has  been. 
"  We  speak  that  which  we  know ;  we  testify  to  that  which  we  have 
seen."  I  knew  one,  and  none  knew  him  better  than  myself,  who, 
as  far  as  human  judgment  can  see,  owes  his  present  freedom,  his 
present  obedience  to  lawful  authority,  to  his  happy  disobedience  to 
unlawful  authority.  And  I  do  not  forget  that  that  was  one  told  by 
the  said  unlawful  authority,  that  such  happy  disobedience  was  proof 
patent  that  his  yearning  after  the  authority  that  was  lawful  was  from 
the  Evil  One.  "  Providence  has  placed  you  in  my  hands,"  were 
his  words ;  "  and  to  consult  a  Romish  priest  or  open  a  Romish  book 
when  I  forbid  you,  is  to  disobey  not  me,  but  God." 

Another  I  knew,  who  of  the  same  unlawful  authority  humbly 
and  earnestly  sought  permission  to  read  Dr.  Bagshawe's  "  Thresh- 
old of  the  Catholic  Church."  Her  prayer  was  angrily  rejected ; 
Vol.  xnr.  No.  162.  *  8 

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88  A  Convert*  Reminiscenoe. 

and  she  was  told,  that,  should  she  dare  read  the  book,  she  would  be 
guilty  of  mortal  sin.  Another  was  absolutely  forbidden  even  to 
receive  a  "  Romanist"  into  her  house ;  and,  during  the  space  of  well- 
nigh  four  years,  was  the  subject  of  a  tyranny  so  oppressive,  so 
universal,  that  not  an  hour  of  the  day  but  was  blighted  by  its  bane- 
ful shadow ;  and  in  neither  of  these  cases  waa  the  conscience  bound 
by  vow  or  semblance  of  vow.  But  "  if  they  do  these  things  in  the 
green  wood,  what  will  they  do  in  the  dry  ?  " 

To  return  to  St.  Matilda's.  After  learning  that  I  had  come  in 
time  for  all  the  good  things  of  the  "  Feast  of  the  Holy  Name,"  I 
left  the  sister- porter  to  find  the  Father  Chaplain.  He  inhabited  a 
picturesque  little  cottage,  in  the  Gothic  style,  within  the  Convent 
grounds,  but  detached  from  the  Convent  itself.    Here  I  found  him ; 

and  after  reading  my  letter  of  introduction  from  "  Father " 

he  expressed  his  regret  that  he  could  not  himself  entertain  me,  as 
his  only  spare  rooms  were  occupied  by  two  friends,  who  like  myself 
were  on  a  visit  to  the  "  Convent."  One  of  these,  whom  I  saw  much 
of  later,  was  an  American  "  Priest/'  the  other  a  young  man,  some- 
what older  than  myself,  and  an  "  Associate  "  of  St.  Matilda's.  On 
asking  the  "  Father  Chaplain's  "  leave  to  visit  the  "  Blessed  Sacra- 
ment," I  was  told,  to  my  great  disappointment,  that  he  would  have  to 
intercede  for  me  with  the  "  Reverend  Mother  ;"  but  that  he  thought 
I  might  hope  for  the  best ;  this  meant  waiting  till  the  morrow. 

My  readers  must  understand  that  the  "  Convent "  boasted  two 
chapels ;  the  "  Great  Chapel,"  where  the  functions  were  performed, 
and  the  "  Secret  Chapel,"  where  were  reserved  the  "  consecrated 
elements,"  and  known  as  the  "  Chapel  of  the  Blessed  Sacrament." 
To  the  former,  I  was  conducted  by  the  "  Father  Chaplain  "  on  the 
evening  of  my  arrival;  and,  on  entering,  was  surprised  to  see 
what  bore  all  the  resemblance  of  a  Tabernacle ;  but,  on  inquiry, 
I  learned  that  it  was  simply  a  solid  block  of  wood,  used  as  a 
" Throne"  for  the  monstrance  at  "Benediction."  By-the-by, 
there  was  a  clever  bit  of  management  gone  through  on  the  Sunday 
evenings,  with  the  intention  of  deceiving  the  neighbourhood  as  to 
the  nature  of  the  "  Convent  doings."  At  seven  o'clock  (note  the 
orthodox  hour),  the  unregenerate  public  of  the  town  and  sur- 
rounding villages  were  admitted  to  the  "  great  chapel "  to  take 
part  in  the  service  of  "  Evening  Prayer,"  as  "  appointed  to  be 
said  or  sung  in  all  the  churches  and  chapels  of  England  and 
Ireland."  Nothing  could  have  been  more  satisfactorily  "Pro- 
testant ; "  nothing  in  more  ridiculous  contrast  to  what  followed, 
as  soon  as  the  last  of  the  "  Dearly  Beloved  Brethren  "  had  passed 


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A  Converts  Reminiscetocb*.  89 

beyond  the  sacred  precincts,  and  the  bolts  safely  drawn  behind  him; 
But  of  this  anon. 

Being  anxious  to  see  and  enjoy  as  much  of  St.  Matilda's  as 
possible,  I  was  enabled,  by  the  kind  hospitality  of  the  "  Father 
Chaplain/1  to  spend  the  greater  part  of  each  day  of  my  stay  at  the' 
"  Convent "  itself,  whither  I  arrived  each  morning  from  my 
lodging  in  the  town,  in  time  for  the  first  of  the  two  "  Masses." 

There  is  but  little  to  remark  a  prapos  of  the  "Low  Mass*' 
except  that  the  great  difference  between  the  "  Romish  original  " 
and  the  "  English  adaptation/'  consisting  of  omissions  rather  than 
more  direct  corruptions,  did  not  here  prevail,  for  such  omissions 
were  faithfully  supplied. 

A  word  as  to  the  "  Secret  Chapel."  It  opened  off  the  "  Great 
Chapel/'  from  which,  indeed,  it  was  separated,  only  by  a  series  of 
heavy  curtains,  so  arranged  that  one  might  have  passed  them 
again  and  again,  as  I  myself  did,  without  suspecting  the  presence 
of  anything  behind.  The  Father  Chaplain's  intercession  proved, 
as  he  had  predicted,  successful ;  so,  under  the  guidance  of  the 
young  "Associate"  of  whom  I  have  already  made  mention,  I 
was  admitted  to  this  "  abode  of  mystery."  The  Chapel,  Gothic 
in  style,  was  small,  but  artificially  divided  into  two  parts  of  about 
equal  size,  that  in  which  the  altar,  with  its  tabernacle,  all  aglow 
with  gold  and  precious  stones  was  placed,  being  treated  as  the 
sanctuary,  although,  architecturally  speaking,  it  formed  but  the 
half  of  what  would  be  more  correctly  described  as  a  very  beauti- 
ful but  small  family-oratory.  The  decorations,  the  colouring, 
the  gilding,  all  contributed  to  the  mysterious  awe  that  seemed  to 
pervade  the  atmosphere.  To  the  left  of  the  sanctuary,  in  an 
exquisitely  carved  niche,  stood  a  remarkably  beautiful  statue  of 
the  Blessed  Virgin,  before  which  lights  were  kept  always  burning. 
I  need  hardly  add  that  the  lamp  found  its  place  before  the  Taber- 
nacle. 

I  frequently  availed  myself  of  the  privilege  afforded  me  by 
the  "  Reverend  Mother "  of  visiting  this  chapel ;  and  I  think  I 
never  passed  beneath  those  mysterious  curtains,  but  through  the 
"  dim  religious  light "  amounting,  indeed,  to  a  faint  twilight,  my 
eyes  fell  on  the  prostrate  forms  of  some  six  or  seven  of  the 
"  watching  sisters."  Gentle  reader,  does  not  your  heart  bleed  for 
them  P  And  do  you  not  pray  that  they  and  all  such  as  they  may 
yet  say  with  St.  Thomas  Aquinas  before  the  altar  of  the  true 
Church — "  Adoro  te  devote,  latens  deitas  ?  "  With  regard  to  the 
"  Benediction  "  there  is  little  to  add  to  what  Hay  readers  are  already 

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$0  A  Converts  Reminiscence. 

80  familiar  with ;  the  rite  as  performed  at  "  St.  Matilda's  "  beings 
almost  the  counterpart  of  that  of  the  Church.  The  "Priest," 
bearing  the  "host"  in  a  pyx,  was  preceded  from  the  "Secret 
Chapel/-  by  the  acolytes,  clad  in  white  and  scarlet,  and  by  the 
"Novice- nuns"  bearing  lighted  lamps  and  the  fragrance  of  the 
choicest  incense,  and  to  straine  of  the  softest  music.  Suffice  it  to 
add  that  the  vestments  were  of  the  richest,  the  altar  ablaze  with 
light  and  colour,  and  the  monstrance  as  of  precious  stone  itself,  in 
the  flashing  of  its  myriad  diamond  and  sapphire.  Besides  the 
"Benediction,"  there  was  "Exposition"  in  the  "Secret  Chapel" 
twice  during  the  week,  "  Missa  Cantata  "  on  Sundays  and  feast- 
days  ;  and,  of  course,  recitation  of  the  "  Canonical  Hours  "  at  the 
seven  orthodox  times  of  the  day.  These  were  presided  over  by 
the  "Reverend  Mother,"  English  translations  of  the  Catholic 
original  being  always  employed.  I  was  much  struck  by  the 
seeming  wealth  of  the  "  Convent."  Everything  was  of  the  richest. 
I  must,  however,  except  the  Refectory,  where,  judging  from  the 
tables  which  I  saw  one  day  set  for  the  dinner,  I  should  say 
poverty  certainly  was  practised.  Indeed,  I  have  reason  to  believe, 
both  from  what  I  myself  witnessed,  and  from  what  1  have  heard 
from  others  who  know  "  St.  Matilda's  "  better  than  myself,  that 
their  vow  of  poverty  is  no  more  a  pretence  than  certainly  is  their 
vow  of  obedience.  But  the  altar-plate,  the  vestments,  the  altar- 
antependia — of  which,  I  heard,  there  were  none  under  the  value  of 
three  hundred  pounds — and  the  chapel  appointments  generally, 
were  such  that  I  fear  he  would  be.  charged  with  exaggeration  who 
should  attempt  a  description  of  them. 

For  obvious  reasons,  I  forbear  giving  a  more  detailed  account 
of  the  architectural  features  of  the  Convent,  beyond  saying  that 
the  style  was  early  English  and  arranged  both  without  and  within 
and  in  all  respects,  as  a  properly-disposed  convent  of  any  active 
Order  within  the  Church.  The  situation  of  "  St.  Matilda's,"  sur- 
rounded by  its  own  park  lands,  and  bordering  on  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  of  the  southern  counties,  was  perfect. 

And  now,  I  hear  my  readers  asking  themselves :  "  Can  they  be 
in  earnest  P  Can  they  be  happy  P  "  If  earnestness  is  compatible 
with  fear,  to  the  first  question,  yes.  If  happiness  is  not 
compatible  with  fear,  to  the  second  question,  no.  Fear ;  for  the 
very  "  raison  d'&tre  "  is  that  it  should  act  as  a  breakwater,  to  keep 
back  that  impetuous  stream  of  aspiring  souls,  ever  issuing  forth 
from  the  "  stony  ground "  with  which  it  cannot  combine,  from 
gaining  the  "good  ground"  of  the  one  only  Church  of  God. 


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To  St.  Base  of  Lima.  91 

"  What  can  you  want  more  than  the  Church  of  your  Baptism  can 
give  youP"  is  the  sophism,  hollow  as  it  is  cruel,  which  has 
enkindled  within  many  a  seeking  soul  those  fierce  fires  of  the 
doubt  which  tortures  even  to  the  moral  ctaath ;  and  from  which, 
alas,  too  often,  it  is  to  be  feared,  there  is  no  resurrection. 

Is  not  the  "  father  of  lies  "  true  to  himself  in  the  nineteenth 
century,  as  when  he  said  in  the  first :  "  All  these  things  will  I 
give  thee  if  thou  wilt  fall  down  and  adore  me  P  "* 

F.  E.  A. 


TO  ST.  ROSE  OF  LIMA. 

"Wten  a  strange  race  shall  oonquer  Peru,  the  son  Trill  claim  his  bride  from  among  the 
daughters  of  the  Inoas."— Peruvian  Prophecy. 

HAIL  I  Treasure  of  the  Incaa  true  I 
Fairer  than  golden  dross; 
Ruse  jewelled  with  celestial  dew, 

Beneath  the  Southern  Cross  1 
Hail  I  flower  of  peerless  charm  and  grace, 
Hail !  blossom  of  the  desert  place, 
Bride  of  the  Sun ! 

Sweet  Rosemary  I  the  blessed  name 

Christ's  Mother  bade  thee  wear  ; 
Still  rosemaries  (ah,  precious  fame !) 

The  holy  Cross  do  bear. 
Type  of  the  sinless  Virgin's  dole, 
The  Calvary  of  Mary's  soul ; 

Love's  martyred  One. 

For  aye  thou  liv'st,  O  mystic  bud, 

Within  a  soil  divine; 
Liv'st  by  the  shower  of  Precious  Blood, 

The  beams  that  on  thee  shine  I 
Bloom  of  the  thorny  crown  thou  art  t 
The  Spouse,  the  Rose  of  Jesus'  Heart  H* 

Bride  of  the  Sun  I 

Mabt  C.  Obowlky. 

*  We  have  had  doubts  whether  this  paper  would  be  intelligible  to  many  of 
our  readers.  How  can  those  whom  it  describes  remain  outside  the  One  Church 
wherein  God  has  promised  (in  this  Eucharistio  sense  also)  to  abide  for  ever  P 
But  noblesse  oblige ;  and  what  solemn  responsibilities  press  upon  us  who  axe 
within  t— Ed.  L  M. 

t  In  the  Office  of  her  feast,  August  SO,  we  read  that  Our  Lord  deigned  to  say 
to  this  first  Saint  of  South  America :  "  Rosa  cordis  mei,  tu  mihi  sponsa  esto." 


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r:  (  92.  ) 


r        .      THE  O'bONNELL  PAPERS. 

PART  XXI.* 
Mobqan  O'Connill— Spbing  Riok—Smtth  O'Bbibn— Thomaa  Davis. 

THE  twentieth  day  of  January  just  past  was  the  first  anni- 
versary of  the  death  of  Mr.  Morgan  O'Connell,  to  whose 
great  and  persevering  kindness  this  Magazine  owes  the  privilege 
of  being  the  medium  of  giving  to  the  world  many  interesting 
relics  of  his  illustrious  father,  the  Liberator  of  Ireland.  The 
world  has  not  a  long  memory,  but  Daniel  O'Connell  is  one  of  the 
few  whom  the  world'  will  never  forget ;  and  many  will  in  time 
to  come  turn  to  these  pages  for  the  fragments  of  the  diary  of  his 
early  manhood,  for  some  of  his  own  letters,  and  many  addressed 
to  him  by  Cobbett,  Brougham,  and  many  others. 

Before  resuming  our  transcription  of  documents,  which  must 
be  taken  almost  at  random,  and  which  we  do  not  deem  it  necessary 
to  arrange  in  chronological  order,  it  is  fitting  to  pay  a  brief  tribute 
of  affection  and  respect  to  the  memory  of  the  excellent  man  who 
confided  to  us  a  trust  to  which  we  now  promise  to  be  more 
faithful  than  we  have  been.  Morgan  O'Connell  was  the  second 
of  O'ConnelTs  sons,  being  born  in  1805.  Maurice,  the  eldest, 
and  John,  the  third  son,  died  many  years  before  him,  and  the 
only  one  of  O'ConnelTs  sons%how  living  is  the  youngest,  Daniel. 
In  one  of  Mrs.  O'ConnelTs  most  wifely  and  motherly  letters,  the 
perusal  of  which  has  given  us  a  high  opinion  of  her  head  and 
heart,  she  writes  to  her  husband:  "Your  doats  were  all  in 
the  drawingroom  when  we  got  your  letter  last  night.  They  had 
twenty  questions  to  ask,  the  chief  one  being  when  will  their  father 
come  home  P  I  believe  no  children  ever  loved  their  father  as  yours 
do,  heart.  When  they  speak  of  you,  their  little  eyes  sparkle  with 
pleasure — even  silent  Morgan  and  saucy  Kate."    The  next  reference 

*  The  immediately  preceding:  instalment  of  this  series  will  be  found  at  page 
589  of  our  twelfth  annual  volume.  Through  our  own  fault,  not  through  any 
dearth  of  materials,  the  series  was  suspended  during  the  whole  of  the  past  year 
1885.  At  page  102  of  the  volume  just  referred  to  we  said  that  in  spite  of  the 
negotiations  with  Henry  Brougham,  O'Connell  had  never  actually  become  poor 
Queen  Caroline's  Attorney-General  for  Ireland.  Mr.  W.  J.  Fitzpatrick  has  been 
good  enough  to  mention  to  us  that  lie  possesses  letters  signed  formally  by 
O'Connell  as  Attorney-General  to  the  Qmen. 


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The  ffCmneU  Paper*.  «93 

"we  find  ocours  in  a  letter  from  the  venerable  Father  Peter  Kenny, 
whose  memory  even  still  is  respected  and  not  by  those  alone  who 
look  up  to  him  as  one  of  the  founders  of  the  Society  of  Jesus  in 
Ireland.  Writing  to  O'Oonnell  from  Clongbwes  Wood  on  the  3rd 
of  August,  1817,  he  says  at  the  end  of  his  letter : 

Of  Maurice  I  have  everything  good  to  ear.  His  improvement  in  classical 
knowledge  has  been  very  considerable.  If  you  and  we  can  form  him  to  steady 
habits  of  application,  we  shall  get  him  to  do  anything.  God  has  given  him  very 
ample  talent.  Exertion  and  cultivation  will  make  him  a  solid  and  conspicuous 
scholar.  Of  good  Morgan  I  cannot  say  so  much.  Less  talented,  he  wants 
application  which  alone  could  supply  for  the  deficiency.  His  dispositions  are 
good,  generous,  bold,  independent — if  he  had  industry,  he  would  be  no  incon- 
siderable character.  Let  me  entreat  you,  my  dear  sir,  not  to  indulge  them  too 
much. 

Evidently  Father  Kenney  (we  have  looked  again  at  his  auto- 
graph to  ascertain  his  own  way  of  spelling  his  name)  feared  that 
the  brilliant  barrister  was  too  affectionate  a  parent.  One  sign  of 
his  affection  is  the  care  which  preserved  the  schoolboy  letters 
which  lie  here  before  us  after  seventy  years.  On  the  27th  of 
June,  1818,  Maurice  O'Connell  writes  to  his  mother  from  Olon- 
gowes  : 

I  know  that  I  need  not  remind  you  that  this  is  my  birthday.  On  this  day 
twelvemonths  you  told  me  in  a  letter  I  received  from  you  that  that  day  fourteen 
years  was  one  of  the  happiest  of  your  life.  It  shall  be  my  care,  my  dear 
mamma,  that  nothing  shall  ever  occur  that  may  induce  you  to  change  your 
opinion.  It  shall  be  my  care,  whilst  I  live,  to  endeavour  to  repay  that  love  and 
tenderness  with  which  you  watched  over  my  childhood  and  endeavoured  to  instil 
the  seeds  of  virtue  into  my  breast.  Nor  am  I  less  grateful  to  my  father,  not 
only  for  his  love  but  for  that  brilliant  example  which  his  conduct  has  placed 
before  my  eyes — an  example  which  it  shall  ever  be  my  pride  to  imitate,  as  I 
know  that  that  will  make  me  beloved  and  esteemed  here  and  happy  for  eternity 
hereafter. 

He  then  goes  on  to  speak  of  new  clothes  and  guns,  and  ends 
"  with  love  to  all  friends,  in  which  I  am  joined  by  Morgan." 
Before  we  follow  Morgan,  we  may  quote  the  welcome  given  by 
the  Rector  of  Clongowes  to  the  next  of  his  brothers.  Father 
Kenney  writes  as  follows : — 

Clongowbs  Wood,  Clafb, 
December  16, 1828. 
Drab  Sib, 

I  was  from  home  when  your  son  arrived  yesterday,  and  I  now 
hasten  to  express  the  pleasure  which  I  feel  in  adding  your  third  son  to  the 
number  of  our  pupils.  You  may  wry  -onr  every  exertion  ter  Impart  tcrhis 
young  mind  and  heart  that  knowledge  and  piety  which  will  dispose  him  to 


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$4  The  (yConnell  Papers. 

discharge  the  duties  of  the  station  to  which  God  may  call  him  with  credit  and 
advantage. 

When  this  object  is  attained  hy  your  parental  care  and  our  aid,  then  you 
judge  rightly  in  deciding,  that  he  is  to  be  left  to  those  inclinations  by  which 
the  great  Author  of  society  will  direct  his  steps  to  the  path  in  which  he  wishes 
to  be  served  by  him.  I  am  much  gratified  by  your  promise  of  spending  a  day 
here  before  the  expiration  of  the  Ohristmas  holidays.  As  the  days  are  short,  I 
hope  that  you  will  make  up  your  mind  to  sleep  here  that  night,  that  we  may 
have  more  leisure  to  enjoy  your  company  and  conversation. 

It  were  well  that  some  decision  were  made  relative  to  the  future  education 

of  the  B .    They  are  both  very  deficient  in  talent;  at  least  in  that  talent, 

which  is  required  for  literary  pursuits.  Alexander  the  elder  is  now  growing 
very  big,  and  it  would  be  much  more  useful  to  him  to  attend  solely  to  an 
English  education,  than  to  spend  his  time  in  the  elements  of  languages  of 
which  he  never  will  know  much.  He  says  too  that  he  is  to  be  removed  shortly, 
and  this  hope  does  not  encourage  him  to  greater  application. 
I  am,  dear  sir,  with  great  regard, 

Most  sincerely  yours, 

Pktkb  Kbknby. 

We  may  here  take  leave  of  the  most  distinguished  Irish 
preacher*  of  the  early  part  of  this  century  by  giving  another  note 
which  O'Gonnell  preserved  among  his  papers,  and  which  our 
printers  set  up  in  type  from  the  original  dingy  sheet.  He  already 
spells  honor  in  that  American  fashion : — 

Olongowks  Wood,  Clank, 
July  26,  1825. 
Dear  Sib, 

If  your  numerous  and  important  avocations  at  this  season 
would  allow  you  to  rest  one  dsy  at  Clongowes  Wood,  we  should  be  most  happy 
to  see  you  amongst  those  friends  who  are  expected  to  honor  our  academical 
exercises  and  to  dine  with  us  on  Monday,  August  1.  The  exercises  of  the 
higher  classes  will  not  begin  before  two  o'clock,  and  if  this  house  could  serve 
you  as  a  resting-place  on  your  way  to  Galway,  we  should  be  most  happy  to 
reserve  a  room  for  you  that  night.  You  know,  that  we  are  within  five  miles 
of  Maynootb,  the  high  road  to  Connaught,  which  you  can  easily  regain  at  any 
hour  you  like  the  next  day.  Whilst  I  thus  express  my  wish  to  obtain  the 
deserved  gratification,  I  feel  that  no  desire  or  speculation  of  mine  should  regu- 
late movements  with  which  both  public  and  private  interests  are  so  closely 
connected. 

Knowing  the  value  of  your  time. and  thoughts,  I  beg  that  you  will  not 
occupy  either  in  writing  an  answer  to  this  invitation*  Delegate  the  task  to  our 
friend  Maurice,  whom  we  expect  to  see  on  the  academy-day :  and  to  whom  I 
beg  to  be  most  kindly  remembered. 

John  will  of  course  be  in  Merrion-square  either  the  night  of  the  1st  or 


early  on  the  2nd  of  August. 


Yours  most  sincerely, 

Pbtkr  Kknkxt. 


•  Strangely  omitted  by  Mr.  W,  J.  Fitzpatrick  in  his  enumeration  of  Father 
Burke's  predecessors. 


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The  O'ConneU  Papers.  W 

In  October,  1826,  John  O'ConneU  writes  a  very  earnest  letter 
to  his  father,  expressing  his  strong  repugnance  to  the  legal  pro- 
fession and  a  strong  partiality  for  the  navy,  but  promising  to 
obey  the  final  wishes  of  his  parents.  O'Connell  seems  to  have 
decided  that  his  favourite  son,  as  Mr.  Alfred  Webb  calls  him,  should 
follow  his  own  steps  more  closely,  whereas  he  allowed  Morgan  to 
enter  on  a  more  romantic  career.  When  a  mere  lad  of  fifteen  or 
sixteen  years,  he  served  under  Simon  Bolivar  in  the  struggle  for 
independence  carried  on  by  the  South  American  States.  Of  his 
adventures,  especially  on  his  voyage  home,  Mr.  O'ConneU  aUowed 
ns  not  long  before  his  death  to  read  an  account  which  we  hope  to 
lay  before  our  readers.  As  early  as  December  22nd,  1821,  he  is 
nearing  home  after  his  wanderings,  for  a  letter  Ues  before  us, 
written  on  that  date,  on  board  His  Majesty's  ship  Raleigh,  at 
Spithead.  No  chance  in  those  days  of  reaching  "30  Merrion 
Square  "  in  time  for  Christmas. 

Young  Morgan  lost  no  time  in  resuming  his  mflitary  career. 
The  next  of  his  letters,  exceUently  written  in  every  sense,  is  dated 
*  Paris,  June  25th,  1823,'*  when  he  was  on  his  way  to  Italy,  where 
he  had  got  an  appointment  in  the  Austrian  army  in  the  fourth 
regiment  of  light  horse.  "  I  suppose  you  heard  (he  says)  that 
Lady  Holland,  Lady  Oxford,  and  Mrs.  Hutchinson  were  ordered 
by  the  police  to  quit  Paris :  they  were  accused  of  seeing  people 
at  their  houses  who  were  hostile  to  the  Bourbons  and  the  govern- 
ment. I  saw  old  Louis  drive  out  the  other  day.  The  carriage 
was  open,  and  the  poor  old  man  looked  very  ill  indeed,  thin  and 
yeUow.  I  also  saw  the  Duchess  of  Berri,  an  ugly,  squint-eyed 
little  woman." 

On  the  7th  of  September,  1824,  the  young  man  writes  from 
Vicenza  to  his  father,  who  evidently  ordered  him  to  give  up  his 
position  and  to  return,  much  to  his  regret.     This  change  was  pro- 
bably caused  by  money  difficulties.      "I  also  wrote  to  Baron 
O'ConneU  at  Vienna  in  order  to  let  him  know  of  my  departure.    He 
wishes  me  to  pass  through  Vienna  in  order  that  (as  he  says)  he 
may  have  the  satisfaction  of  embracing  before  he  dies  the  grand- 
son of  his  beloved  cousin  Morgan.     The  route  he  has  marked  out  j 
is  from  Venice,  one  day — from  Venice  to  Trieste  in  the  steamboat 
a  few  hours — from  Trieste  to  Vienna  in  the  newly  established  di-  ' 
ligence,  36  hours — and  then  from  Vienna  to  Paris  through  Frank- 
tort,  Lille,  Cologne  and  Brussels."    Nous  avons  changt  tout  cela.             ; 
Who  could  dream  then  of  Mount  Cenis  tunnels  P   Butin  February* 
1826,  we  find  him  writing  from  the  garrison  at  Ghirs  in  Hungary             i 

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06  The  (TConneU  Papers. 

and  rejoi6ing  at  having  (to  use  his  own  phrase)  "  resumed  the  pomp 
oi  war/'  On  the  first  of  January  following,  writing  from  the  same 
place,  after  wishing  them  all  a  happy  new  year  in  old  Ireland,  he 
announces  his  appointment  as  Lieutenant.  The  next  letter  is  in 
July  of  Emancipation  year  and  shows  him  still  busy  with  his  foreign 
soldiering.  But  after  Emancipation  Morgan  O'Connell  engaged  in 
another  sort  of  warfare.  The  remaining  letters  presented  by  the 
Liberator  relate  chiefly  to  electioneering  affairs  in  Meath  and  at 
Athlone.  One  dated  November  13,  1840,  is  the  first  in  which  we 
perceive  an  allusion  to  his  happy  marriage  to  Miss  Kate  Balfe  of 
Southpark,  County  Roscommon.  "  My  little  wife  desires  me  to  give 
you  her  fondest  and  most  dutiful  love."  Those  who  know  her  will 
not  need  to  be  told  that  the  society  of  this  youngest  daughter  was  one 
of  the  sweetest  consolations  of  the  great  Tribune's  declining  years. 

Resuming  the  publication  of  these  O'Connell  Papers  on  the  first 
anniversary  of  the  death  of  the  friend  to  whom  we  owe  them,  it 
will  not,  we  trust,  be  deemed  indiscreet  to  add  that  that  death  was 
a  fitting  close  to  a  virtuous  Christian  life.  Morgan  was  much  more 
than  a  Catholic  of  an  ordinary  virtuous  life ;  he  was  a  man  of  re- 
markable piety  and  holiness,  and  many  edifying  things  might  be 
told  of  his  lively  faith,  his  devotion,  his  charity  in  word  and  deed, 
and  his  earnest  anxiety,  not  merely  during  the  last  days  of  his  life, 
but  for  many  years,  to  be  ready  in  the  minutest  particulars  for  his 
last  account.  His  deathbed  was  made  happy  by  all  human  and 
divine  consolations. 

To  carry  out  the  policy  announced  a  few  pages  back,  the  rest 
of  the  space  which  this  month  can  lay  at  our  disposal  may  be 
devoted  to  as  many  letters  as  we  can  crush  into  it,  without  regard- 
ing order  of  time  or  nature  of  subject.  Mr.  Spring  Rice  writes 
in  the  following  terms,  just  as  parliament  was  about  to  assemble  at 
the  same  time  which  has  now  again  seen  it  reassemble  under  very 
different  circumstances.  Many  things  have  happened  since 
January  15,  1828,  when  Spring  Rice  writes  thus  from  Whitehall : 

My  dear  Sib, 

I  apprehend  I  date  from  Whitehall  for  the  last  time,  and  that 
the  meeting  of  Parliament  will  Bee  me  on  niy  old  bench.  I  came  here  in  hopes 
that  I  might  be  of  service  to  Ireland,  and  when  that  hope  ceases  I  shall  quit 
office  without  at  least  the  consciousness  of  having  done  or  omitted  any  act 
that  could  compromise  the  great  interests  to  which  I  am  pledged.  I  may  there* 
fore  at  present  venture  suggestions  which  I  never  made  so  long  as  they  might 
have  been  attributed  to  motives  of  political  or  personal  convenience.  A.  Tory 
•end  Exclusive  Government  cannot  certainly  claim  any  sympathy  from  me, 
should  such  a  monster  be  formed,  as  I  consider  is  most  probable.  But  even  then, 


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The  &  Cornell  Papett.  97 

4f  despair  were  in  our  hearts,  my  word  would  be  still  the  same,  that  the  Irish 
Catholics  should  be  calm  in  their  strength  and  moderate  ia  all  their  determina- 
tions. Attempts  will  be  made,  I  have  no  doubt,  to  goad  and  irritate;  hut  the 
quarter  they  come  from  should  be  our  safeguard  and  protection. 

I  trust  you  will  not  take  these  few  precautionary  words  amiss ;  they  are 
dictated  solely  by  the  earnestness  of  my  attachment  to  the  good  cause  not  of 
Catholics  only  but  of  Protestants,  of  Irishmen,  of  all  British  subjects,  and 
indeed  of  the  just  throughout  the  world. 

Believe  me,  my  dear  sir, 

Ever  most  truly  yours, 

T.  Spring  Rick. 

For  information  as  to  the  position  Thomas  Spring  Rice  occupied 
when  he  wrote  this  letter,  we  torn  to  that  invaluable  oook  which 
we  not  for  the  first  time  recommend  earnestly  to  our  readers — Mr. 
Alfred  Webb's  "  Compendium  of  Irish  Biography/' — and  we  find 
he  was  then  MP.  for  Limerick  and  Under-Secretary  for  the  Home 
Department.  He  was  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer  from  1835  to 
1839  when  he  became  Lord  Monteagle. 

William  Smith  O'Brien  furnishes  the  next  item.  Even  if  we  had 
not  formally  renounced  all  pretensions  to  consecutiveness,  Dromo- 
land  and  Mount  Trenchard  are  linked  closely  enough  to  justify  the 
transition.  Smith  O'Brien  had  opposed  O'Connell's  second  election 
for  Clare  and  had  fought  a  duel  with  Tom  Steele ;  and  it  was  only 
in  1844  that  he  threw  his  lot  in  with  the  Repealers.  It  is  no  wonder 
that  in  1839  O'Connell  thought  harshly  of  him.  Of  two  other 
Irishmen  who  ought  to  have  been  united  but  were  not,  I  have 
heard  a  wise  man  suggest  as  one  of  the  causes  of  their  mutual  re- 
pulsion that  one  of  them  was  very  proud  and  the  other  very  vain. 
Few  men  have  a  better  excuse  for  an  amiable  love  of  admiration 
than  O'Connell  had ;  and,  if  his  charges  against  Smith  O'Brien 
can  be  disputed,  it  would  only  be  to  give  another  name  to  the  flaw 
in  his  character.  The  following  letter  was  addressed  to  an  in- 
fluential priest  of  the  county  of  Limerick,  the  Yery  Rev.  Thomas 
O'Brien  Costello,  V.G.  and  P.P.  of  Murroe  : 

London,  16*A  May,  1839. 
My  bbspbgtkd  Fbiknd, 

What  are  you  to  do  with  Smith  O'Brien  ?  In  asking  the  question  I  have 
no  personal  resentment  or  personal  feeling  to  gratify.  All  I  want  to  know  is 
what  do  you  think  best  for  the  county  in  particular  and  the  country  in  general. 
I  easily  forgive  his  foolish  imprudence  towards  myself.  The  question  remains 
—what  is  best  to  be  done  with  him  P  lie  is  an  exceedingly  weak  man,  proud 
and  self -conceited ;  and,  like  almost  all  weak  men  utterly  impenetrable  to  advice. 
You  cannot  be  sure  of  him  for  half  an  hour.  But  are  you  in  a  condition  to  get 
rid  of  him  and  have  you  a  candidate  to  supply  his  place  P    The  answer  to  these 


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98  The  ffConne.U  Paper*. 

two  questions  ought  to  be  decisive  as  to  the  mode  of  proceeding,  and  to  you 
I  apply  for  such  answem  and  for  suggestions  as  to  the  steps  which  ought  to  be 
taken.  It  would  be  at  all  events  most  desirable  that  he  should  be  pledged  not 
to  oppose  the  present  ministry. 

I  am  happy  to  tell  you  that,  if  we  were  free  from  desertion  in  our  own 
camp,  the  Tories  would  not  have  the  least  chance  of  resuming  power.  Indeed, 
my  own  opinion  is  that  we  are  quite  safe  5  but  then  it  is  the  part  of  wise  men  to 
make,  if  they  can,  assurance  doubly  sure. 

I  intend,  please  God,  to  hear  Mass  in  Dublin  on  Sunday  next,  and  to  remain 
there  until  the  ensuing  Saturday.  If  you  deem  it  necessary  to  write  to  me, 
address  your  answer  to  my  house  in  Merrion-square.  Nobody  knows  the 
resources  of  the  country  as  well  as  you  do,  and  nobody  has  the  head  and  heart 
so  capable  as  yours  of  devising  and  carrying  out  the  measures  most  suited  to 
critical  times  such  as  those  in  which  we  are  now  involved.  Your  advice  and 
assistance  are  in  such  times  invaluable. 

We  should,  I  think,  address  the  Queen  on  her  escape  from  the  Tories,  and  to 
pray  her  to  come  to  visit  Ireland.  We  will  set  about  these  things  when  1  arrive 
in  Dublin. 

I  have  the  honour  to  be  very  respectfully,  my  revered  friend, 

Yours  very  faithfully! 

Daniel  O'Cokkkll. 

Smith  O'Brien  was  not  disturbed  in  the  representation  of 
County  Limeriek.  He  and  O'Connell  came  to  understand  one  an- 
other better.  Mr.  Webb,  in  his  "  Compendium  of  Irish  Biography," 
omits  to  mention  O'Brien's  imprisonment  in  the  House  of  Commons.* 
The  following  letter,  of  which  the  first  sheet  is  lost,  refers  to  this 
famous  incident : — 

I  have  no  hesitation,  therefore,  in  saying  that  I  prefer  to  owe  my  discharge 
to  you  rather  than  to  him,  and  that,  if  you  fail  in  obtaining  it  to-night  upon 
the  grounds  upon  which  I  have  claimed  it  in  my  letter  to  the  Speaker,  you  have 
my  consent  to  give  notice  of  a  similar  motion  for  Monday. 

It  is,  however,  of  the  utmost  importance  not  to  me  alone  but  to  Ireland  and 
Repeal  that  every  possible  effort  should  be  made  to  obtain  a  successful  debate 
and  division  to-night.  If  I  can  be  released  without  owing  anything  to  the 
indulgence  of  the  House,  our  triumph  would  be  great  indeed.  The  next  best 
result  would  be  to  raise  an  impression  by  an  effective  debate  and  legal  argu- 
ment that  the  House  has  strained  its  powers,  notwithstanding  an  obvious  irregu- 
larity, for  the  purpose  of  keeping  me  in  prison. 

I  take  for  granted  that  the  House  will  allow  you  at  five  o'clock  to  move 
"That  the  order  of  the  day  for  taking  Mr.  O'Brien's  letter  into  consideration 
be  now  read,"  and  that  upon  its  being  read  you  will  be  permitted  to  move 
*  That  Mr.  O'Brien  be  forthwith  discharged  from  the  custody  of  the  Sergeant- 
at-arms."  If  the  Government  should  refuse  to  give  precedence  to  this  motion 
you  ought  to  move  M  That  the  House  do  now  adjourn,"  and  upon  this  motion 

*  In  his  sketch  of  tfOonnell  he  says :  "  He  left  four  sons,  now  dead  "— 
whereas  Morgan  was  living  at  the  time,  and  Daniel  is  still  living. 


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The  0'  Conneil  Papers.  99 

state  the  whole  legal  argument,  protesting  against  my  imprisonment  as  a  wrong 
done  not  to  me  alone  but  also  to  my  constituents..  If  the  decision  of  the  House 
upon  your  motion  for  my  release  should  he  unfavourable,  I  am  disposed  to  think 
that  a  motion  should  be  made  for  an  adjournment,  with  a  view  to  record  your 
protest  against  any  proceeding  being  allowed  to  take  place  in  the  House  whilst 
the  electors  of  Limerick  remain  deprived  of  their  representative. 

I  have  thought  it  better,  in  order  to  avoid  misunderstanding,  to  commit  my 
ideas  to  paper  in  reference  to  the  subjects  to  which  this  letter  relates. 

Believe  me, 

Yours  very  sincerely, 

William  S.  O'Bbirn. 
D.  O'Oonnell,  Esq. 

Is  the  numbering  oi  the  houses  in  Baggot  Street  unchanged 
since  forty  years  ago  P  If  so,  a  special  interest  attaches  to  No.  61, 
for  there  Thomas  Davis  lived  till  his  death.  The  following  letter 
is  a  very  private  one  addressed  to  Mr.  John  O'Connell ;  but  the 
need  of  secrecy  has  long  ceased : 

61  Baggot  Street, 

8th  March,  1044. 
My  dear  O'CoffNXLL, 

I  meant  to  have  called  on  you,  hut,  being  unable  to  do  so,  I  must 
write  instead.  I,  for  one,  recommended  your  father  to  go  to  London  on  Sheil  s 
and  Pigot's  repeated  assurance  that  he  was  not  to  be  asked  to  recede,  but,  on 
the  contrary,  would  be  urged  to  take  a  peculiarly  bold  and  Irish  course,  and  to 
return  immediately  after  the  debate.  The  reverse  of  all  this  has  happened. 
His  speech  in  the  debate  was  able  and  dignified  though  surely  not  very  strong. 
No  Repealer,  however,  could  complain  of  it ;  but  I  am  certain  that  his  present 
course  is  not  politic  He  roused  Ireland  by  staying  at  home ;  is  he  not  letting 
her  spirit  sink  by  going  abroad  P  While  he  was  holding  monster  meetings,  he 
breathed  the  most  fiery  and  jealous  nationality.  He  now  praises  the  cheers,  the 
rights,  and  the  feelings  of  the  British  as  much  as  or  more  than  the  Irish.  .Repeal 
and  Federalism  all  go  on  the  doctrine  of  leaving  England  to  settle  her  internal 
affairs  and  Ireland  her  own  internal  affairs  exclusively,  and  he  expressly  avowed, 
and  publicly  and  repeatedly  preached,  that  we  would  neither  depend  on  the 
aid  nor  meddle  with  the  business  of  England.  He  is  now  interfering  with  it 
in  all  important  matters,  he  calls  Ireland  and  her  representatives  to  interfere, 
he  attends  anti-corn  law  meetings,  has  brought  in  a  bill  in  the  Commons,  and 
seems  to  rely  on  English  sympathy  for  redress.  Now,  I  do  not  complain  of  this 
(though  if  Mr.  Sheil  or  Mr.  Pigot  are  parties  to  the  course,  I  would  have  reason 
to  complain  of  them)  but  I  question  the  policy  of  it.  I  see  that  he  has  not  got 
one  sympathizer  more  now  than  he  had  a  year  ago.  These  men  are  powerless 
to  achieve  their  own  end.  The  league  may  use  your  father's  name  and 
oratory,  and  seek  in  exchange  to  keep  him  from  prison,  but  it  will  not  help 
Repeal.  I  know  this.  Mr.  Sturge  is  very  amiable,  but  he  has  little  ability 
and  less  influence.  The  late  and  coming  meetings  and  speeches  are  contradictory 
to  the  whole  policy  of  the  past  Repeal  agitation,  and  equally  opposed  to  what 
that  agitation  must  be  if  vigorously  resumed.  They,  therefore,  shake  the  Irish 
people  now  and  will  embarrass  them  hereafter,  for,  believe  me,  John  O'Connell, 


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100  Keeping  a  Diary. 

•very  single  inconsistency  injures  the  character,  and  weakens  the  power  of  a 
statesman.  If  all  this  be  true,  the  only  effect  of  this  English  movement  wilt 
be  to  check  and  embarrass  Repeal.  I  do  not  and  cannot  suppose  that  your 
father  even  dreamt  of  abandoning  Repeal  to  escape  a  prison—yet  that  is 
implied  in  all  the  Whig  articles.  If  he  had  such  a  purpose,  this  partial 
conciliation  of  Leagues  and  Demi-Chartists  would  not  accomplish  it  Peel* 
not  Sturge,  wields  the  judgment.  Nothing  but  a  dissolution  of  the  Association 
would,  we  are  directly  told,  prevent  the  sentence.  To  dissolve  the  Association 
would  be  to  abdicate  his  power  and  ruin  his  country.  He  is  incapable  of  it; 
you,  of  whose  fidelity  to  Ireland  no  one  feels  a  shadow  of  doubt,  you  would  be- 
no  party  to  it ;  'tis  not  thought  of,  and  so  I  gladly  pass  from  this  insultingr 
suggestion  of  the  Whigs. 

Then,  why  should  your  father  embarrass  his  future  Repeal  policy  by  a 
sojourn  in  England,  and  still  more  by  identifying  us  with  the  English  as  if  he 
were  a  Precursor  and  sought  to  cement  the  Union,  not  to  dissolve  it  P  Why  for 
a  momentary  and  delusive  gain,  why  for  the  hurrahs  and  "  never,  never "  of 
London  or  Birmingham,  which  are  powerless  to  prevent  his  imprisonment,  why 
cloud  the  future  P  In  six  months  or  twelve  he  will  be  obliged  to  throw  aU 
this  overboard  with  much  loss  of  time,  labour,  and  strength.  Ireland  is  not 
what  she  was  a  month  ago.  If  this  continues,  we  shall  have  neither  a  Repeal 
agitation  nor  a  Liberal  Government,  whereas  a  vigorous  pursuit  of  Repeal  now 
would  retain  the  one  and  would  give  the  only  chance  of  the  other. 

I  am  anxious  to  avoid  this  subject  in  public ;  I  entirely  rely  on  your  personal 
kindliness  and  your  devotion  to  our  country  ;  I  want  to  see  if  we  cannot  pull 
more  surely  together,  and 

I  remain,  most  truly  yours, 

Thomas  Davis. 
John  (yConnell,  Esq.,  M.P. 


A 


KEEPING  A  DIARY. 

BY  THE   REV.   WILLIAM  SUTTON,   S.J. 

WELL  kept  diary  is  one  of  the  most  interesting  productions 
of  human  industry.  The  possession  of  a  faithful  record  of 
two  or  three  years  even  of  our  life,  especially  if  it  be  of  a  period  of 
moral  or  intellectual  struggle  and  development,  or  of  both  com- 
bined, is  an  ample  and  abiding  reward  for  the  steadiness  of  effort- 
required.  All  well- written  biography  is  delightful  and  profitable 
reading.  Autobiography  is  by  far  the  most  so,  and  our  own 
becomes  to  us  in  after-years  peculiarly  pleasing  and  useful.  We 
change  so  much  and  we  forget  so  much,  while  still  remaining  the 
same  self,  that  only  they  who  have  put  themselves  on  paper  can 
understand  the  charm  of  renewing  our  acquaintance  with  our 
long  ago  selves.  Hence  the  interest  of  a  dream  which  carries  ua 
back  twenty  years  and  puts  us  in  places  and  among  faces  when 
life  was  fresh,  before  "  the  philosophic  mind  which  comes  with. 

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Keeping  a  Diary.  101 

age "  gave  us  a  new  peace  oi  heart  by  teaching  us  to  hope  for 
little  and  to  be  tolerably  satisfied  with  less.  Hence,  too,  the 
peculiar  pleasure  of  meeting  early  friends  and  acquaintances,  and 
having  a  long  talk  about  old  times. 

It  would  not  be  wise  to  write  a  diary  for  the  eyes  of  others : 
such  a  one  would  hardly  be  a  true  reflection  of  our  thoughts ;  but 
neither  would  it  be  wise  to  write  what  we  should  feel  much  pain 
in  meeting  strange  readers.  Accidents  must  be  prudently  guarded 
against.  A  certain  caution  must  be  observed.  Suppose  we  are 
students  and  want  to  become  thinkers  and  philosophers,  what  will 
a  diary  profit  us  ?  If  we  are  working  with  the  object  of  commu- 
nicating in  after-years  the  results  of  our  labours,  we  could  not 
adopt  a  better  means  for  acquiring  facility  of  literary  expression, 
than  keeping  a  diary  for  the  special  purpose  of  putting  into  it  an 
account  of  our  interior  progress.  Thus  is  learnt  the  way  of  mental 
growth  and  moral  too.  A  genuine  student  must  know  himself 
thoroughly.  He  must  constantly  try  to  see  what  he  knows  and 
what  he  does  not  know  in  those  things  he  is  engaged  about.  By 
the  time  the  true  love  of  knowledge  is  developed  and  fixed  in  him, 
he  has  learnt  the  marvellous  weakness  of  the  human  mind  and  he 
should  have  ceased  to  be  ashamed  of  his  ignorance.  Idlers  should 
be  ashamed  of  their  ignorance,  students  should  not.  Honest  con- 
fession of  nescience  or  uncertainty  on  the  part  of  a  student  raises 
him  in  the  estimation  of  all  whose  esteem  is  worth  having.  A  wise 
interrogation  is  the  best  half  of  science,  says  Bacon.  A  simple 
question  declaratory  of  ignorance  is  indicative  of  a  clear  head,  solid 
progress,  and  the  stuff  that  philosophers  and  better  than  philosphers 
are  made  of.  Putting  what  seems  the  most  important  or  most  in- 
teresting results  of  our  study  in  writing  brings  home  to  us  how  little 
we  know,  gradually  makes  us  intellectually  honest  with  ourselves, 
and  thereby  inclines  us  to  be  so  with  others  too.  When  a  man 
knows  a  great  deal,  he  can  without  risk  reveal  himself.  Still,  it  is 
not  an  easy  thing  to  do,  no  more  than  other  most  useful  conduct  in 
intellectual  training,  such  as  listening  instead  of  thinking  what  we 
shall  say  next,  and  taking  a  good  answer  instead  of  arguing.  The 
small  advantage  of  a  present  dubious  display,  or  seeming  avoidance 
of  a  profitable  defeat  requires  long  self -discipline  to  negative  their 
fascination.  As  we  get  the  habit  of  expressing  in  our  own  words 
what  we  learn  and  think  about  the  subjects  we  are  particularly  in- 
terested in,  our  minds  become  accustomed  to  patient  acquiescence 
in  their  very  imperfect  but  always  progressing  state ;  ceasing  to  be 
ashamed  of  ourselves  in  ourselves,  we  get  over  our  mauvaise  honte  of 

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102  Keeping  a  Diary. 

others,  and  we  acquire  that  intellectual  ease  which  marks  the 
thoroughbred  scholar.  Intellectual  advantages  of  diary  keeping 
are  analogous  to  moral  ones.  Describing  to  ourselves  the  ups  and 
downs,  the  phases  oi  despondency  and  hopefulness  of  the  emotional 
and  voluntary  life,  provides  us  with  remedies,  besides  being  a  great 
help  in  acquiring  that  strength  of  will  which  acknowledges  no  de- 
feat to  be  final  but  makes  of  failures  materials  forultimate  victory* 
It  is  a  great  possession,  skilled  knowledge  of  our 

"  Misery's  birth,  and  growth,  and  signs, 

And  how  the  dying  spark  of  hope  was  fed, 
And  how  the  heart  was  soothed  and  how  the  head, 
And  all  the  hourly  varied  anodynes.0 

Let  all  sincerely  wishing  to  improve  themselves  keep  a  diary. 
Their  grateful  experience  of  its  benefits  will  in  a  short  time 
make  it  for  them  a  pleasant  and  instructive  companion.  They  will 
be  amazed  to  find  after  no  long  time  how  different  things  are  when 
they  happen,  from  what  we  afterwards  conceive  them.  How  much 
fuller  our  lives  were  than  after  awhile  we  are  inclined  to  think. 
What  seems  to  us  dull  while  we  write,  gains  flavour  with  time, 
the  simplest  remarks  upon  persons  and  events  become  mysteriously 
interesting,  we  rise  from  the  perusal  of  our  diary  pleased  at  having 
written  and  preserved  it  and  stimulated  to  keep  it  with  still  greater 
care  for  the  future. 

We  should  record  our  mistaken  notions.  We  often  work  for 
years  at  grammar,  mathematics,  philosophy,  with  a  completely 
wrong  idea  on  very  fundamental  matters.  When  the  true  con- 
ception is  discovered,  trace  the  genesis  of  error  and  how  it  was 
escaped  from.  It  will  be  a  remedy  for  our  own  and  others'  dis- 
couragement. Nothing  can  be  more  interesting  than  such  a  reve- 
lation. Did  we  but  know  what  those  who  have  attained  to 
eminence  in  virtue  have  gone  through  in  the  way  of  trial  and 
failure  on  even  small  points,  we  should  learn  never  to  be  much  or 
long  disheartened  by  our  own  stumbling  struggles  and  falls.  We 
should  learn  (as  I  have  seen  it  expressed  somewhere)  how  to  fall 
forwards,  not  backwards,  how  to  pick  ourselves  up  ahead  of  where 
we  fell  down,  not  behind ;  how  to  pull  ourselves  together  more 
braced  and  compact  than  before,  to  renew  the  fight.  We  should  see 
and  feel  that  hope  and  trying  again  are  the  secrets  of  success.  It  is 
the  same  in  intellectual  development.  For  intellectual  and  moral 
encouragement  the  perusal  of  our  diary  of  previous  years,  put  to- 
gether as  suggested,  will  be  found,  I  repeat,  one  admirable  means. 


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Keeping  a  Diary.  10S 

Understanding  of  difficulties,  lights  on  what  we.  study  are 
flashed  into  consciousness*  without  regard  to  time  or  place.  Fara- 
day used  to  be  seen  in  the  streets  of  London  stopping  and  drawing 
out  a  note  book  and  dotting  down  his  thoughts  in  it.  Experience 
had  taught  him  that  thoughts  worth  keeping  fly  away  and  are  lost, 
if  we  do  not  put  them  into  a  cage  when  we  catch  them.  Some 
men  make  it  a  practice  to  deliberately  watch  for  their  flight  and 
alighting.  If  a  man's  trade  is  thinking  and  thought-catching,  why 
should  he  not  imitate  his  humble  brother  bird-catcher?  Emer- 
son's writings  are  largely  the  fruit  of  this  patient  pursuit  of  ideas. 
He  describes  himself  as  waiting  for  days  sometimes  for  a  thought 
worth  recording.  His  delightful  essays,  which  give  us  back  so 
frequently  the  image  of  our  minds,  show  how  well  he  worked  thus 
at  his  trade.  Make  your  diary  your  cage  for  thought.  It  will 
soon  be  an  aviary  well  stocked  with  valuable  specimens,  whose 
native  wood-notes  wild  may  be  with  no  great  difficulty  trained 
utterance  of  harmony.  What  shall  I  write  about,  is  a  question  we 
ask  ourselves  when  the  craving  for  intellectual  sympathy  comes 
upon  us  from  time  to  time.  Turn  over  the  leaves  of  your  diary 
and  you  will  find  plenty  of  subjects,  plenty  of  matter,  plenty  of 
references.  Whether  Shakespeare  kept  a  diary  or  not  I  do  not 
know,  but  one  of  his  sonnets,  the  seventy-seventh,  illustrates  very 
happily  a  great  deal  of  what  I  have  been  saying. 

Thy  glass  will  show  thee  how  thy  beauties  wear, 
Thy  dial  how  thy  precious  minutes  waste  1 
The  vacant  leaves  thy  mind's  imprint  will  bear, 
And  of  this  book  this  learning  mayst  thou  taste. 
The  wrinkles  which  thy  glass  will  truly  show, 
Of  mouthed  graves  will  give  thee  memory; 
Thou  by  thy  dial's  shady  stealth  mayst  know 
Time's  thievish  progress  to  eternity. 
Look,  what  thy  memory  cannot  contain, 
Commit  to  these  waste  blanks,  and  thou  shalt  find 
Those  children  nursed,  delivered  from  thy  brain, 
To  take  a  new  acquaintance  of  thy  mind. 
These  offices,  so  oft  as  thou  wilt  look 
Shall  profit  thee,  and  much  enrich  thy  book. 

An  admirable  inscription  for  the  fly-leaf  of  our  diary. 

It  often  happens  when  we  commence  writing,  though  there 

is  plenty  to  say,  it  puzzles  us  what  to  take  first,  "  like  a  man  to 

double  business  bound,  we  stand  in  pause  where  we  shall  first  begin, 

and  both  neglect."      Then  the  thing  is  thrown  up  in  disgust. 

Vol.  xiv.  Ho.  162.  9 


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104  Keeping  a  Diary. 

Now  in  a  diary  especially  there  is  no  need  for  caring  how  or  where 
a  thing  is  begun.  Write  right  on.  Whatever  comes  first 
down  with  it,  as  clumsily  or  as  neatly  as  it  comes.  Let  the 
pen  run  on.  It  is  not  for  others'  reading.  Unfinished  sentences 
will  do  if  they  will  not  finish  themselves.  Even  when  writing 
an  essay,  this  is  a  good  plan.  Thoughts  come  to  the  per- 
sistent pen  that  the  pausing  one  will  wait  for  vainly.  Matter 
for  printing  requires  careful  recasting  and  resetting,  but  plenty  of 
good  matter  is  produced  by  keeping  the  pen  going.  It  is  a  way  of 
supplying  to  a  writer  the  stimulus  of  association  of  ideas  which  gives 
a  talker  his  most  brilliant  opportunities.  Things  dull  and  rusty  in 
themselves  will  often  let  us  into  some  secret  recess  in  the  storehouse 
of  our  ideas,  and  enable  us  to  bring  forth  valuable  articles,  other- 
wise hardly  to  be  got  at.  It  is  curious  to  observe  how  thoroughly 
disgusted  we  are  generally  when  reading  over  what  has  been  lately 
written.  It  seems  stiff,  affected,  trite,  unstimulating,  unsuggestive. 
A  month  after  it  will  seem  to  have  recovered  its  elasticity  and 
suggestiveness,  which  of  course  it  never  lost.  The  effort  of  packing 
thought  into  suggestive  words  seems  to  deprive  the  writer  for 
awhile  of  the  power  of  appreciating  the  very  thing  he  had  imparted. 
Not  the  least  benefit  of  a  diary  is  that  it  produces  a  taste  for  writ- 
ing. This  is  the  natural  result  of  finding  out  that  we  have  thoughts 
and  words  to  express  them ;  and  that  they  seem  to  us  instructive 
and  interesting.  If  we  find  out  that  we  have  interested  and  helped 
others  by  what  we  may  have  written,  our  taste  for  and  pleasure  in 
writing  are  greatly  strengthened,  so  as  to  make  it  very  likely  that 
they  will,  not  fitfully  but  habitually,  sooner  or  later  overcome  the 
reluctance  and  aversion  to  face  the  toil  of  composition  which  all 
who  have  what  is  worth  communicating  have  to  struggle  often  long 
against.  This  delicate  pleasure  mixed  with  pain,  since  it  is  to  be 
had,  like  all  high  intellectual  delight,  only  through  effort,  is  a 
precious  possession,  a  sad  loss,  like  the  love  of  study  hard  to  get, 
easy  to  lose,  therefore  jealously  to  be  guarded  by  the  wise  once  it 
is  had. 

A  literary  and  philosophically  observant  diary,  regularly  and 
continuously  kept,  or  at  any  rate  one  in  which  the  entries  are  con- 
siderable and  not  far  between,  is  therefore  a  great  treasure  excel- 
ling, like  wisdom  and  knowledge,  in  this,  that  it  gives  life,  increase 
and  preservation  of  the  higher  life,  to  them  that  possess  it* 


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A  FEW  REPARTEES. 

A  COLLECTION  of  English  Epigrams  chanced  lately  to  fall 
into  our  hands,  over  which  we  spent  some  pleasant  half- 
hours.  But  there  were  in  the  collection  a  few  that,  without  exactly 
stirring  our  bile,  pricked  a  little  the  vein  of  sarcasm.  Perhaps  the 
result  may  amuse  our  readers.  The  editor  of  the  book  is  the  Rev. 
John  Booth,  B.A.  Cambridge.  He  states  in  his  preface  that  a 
few  epigrams  will  be  found  in  his  pages  that  have  not  been  hitherto 
printed ;  which  appears  to  be  a  modest  way  of  saying  that  they  are 
his  own  contribution  to  English  wit.  Mr.  Booth  remarks  that  an 
epigram,  however  witty,  should  never  be  directed  "  at  anything  that 
is  stamped  with  the  Divine  approval/1  and  that  it  should  never  be 
personal.  As,  however,  his  opinions  and  ours  regarding  the  Divine 
approval  seem  to  differ,  he  has  admitted  to  his  collection  several  that 
we  should  have  excluded ;  while  his  canon  of  personal  courtesy  does 
not  include  popes  and  cardinals,  as  will  be  evident  from  the  follow- 
ing, which,  as  it  bears  no  name,  is  probably  his  own : 

On  the  Fapal  Aggression. 

With  Pius,  Wiseman  tries 

To  lay  us  under  ban  s 
O  Pius,  man  unwise ! 

0  impious  Wise-man ! 

The  following  mild  rejoinder  immediately  occurred  to  us : 

To  the  Editor. 

0  Reverend  John  Booth, 
Your  piety  to  soothe 
With  epigrams  like  this, 
Is  certainly  a-miss. 

Mr.  Booth  gives  the  following  not  very  brilliant  effort  on 

Catholic  Absolution. 

It  blew  a  hard  storm  and  in  utmost  confusion 

The  sailors  all  hurried  to  get  absolution ; 

Which  done,  and  the  weight  of  the  sins  they'd  confessed 

Transferr'd,  as  they  thought,  from  themselves  to  the  priest, 

To  lighten  the  ship  and  conclude  their  devotion 

They  tossM  the  poor  parson  souse  into  the  ocean. 


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106  A  Few  Beparteea. 

Those  who  do  not  recognise  in  the  above  the  exact  Catholic 
doctrine  or  practice  of  absolution,  will  not  be  able  to  deny  the  cor- 
rectness of  the  following  version  of  Mr.  Booth's  theory  and  practice. 
We  offer  it  under  the  title  of 

Protestant  Plenary  Indulgence. 

Although  your  wit  should  highly  shine, 
Forbear  to  mock  at  things  Divine  5 
Yet  Plenary  Indulgence  hope 
For  any  trash  against  the  Pope. 

The  next  specimen  of  Protestant  amiability  is  not  from  the  pen 
of  Mr.  Booth.  It  belongs  to  eighteenth  century  ferocity.  But  Mr- 
Booth  has  thought  it  worthy  of  transmission  to  the  nineteenth. 

Our  three  great  enemies,  remember, 

The  Pope,  the  Devil,  and  the  Pretender ; 

All  wicked,  damnable,  and  evil, 

The  Pope,  the  Pretender,  and  the  Devil. 

I  wish  them  all  hung  on  one  rope 

The  Devil,  the  Pretender,  and  the  Pope. 

We  shall  scarcely  be  accused  of  malignity  if  we  retort  by  the 
following : — 

Parson,  Protestant,  and  Bigot, 
Such  flaming  epigrams  you  dig  out, 
That,  Bigot,  Protestant,  and  Parson, 
Your  crime  is  spiritual  arson. 

Mr.  B.  gives  the  following 

On  JSrtn* 

"  Justice  for  Ireland !  "  rends  the  sky, 
Shouted  by  many  a  Popish  traitor ; 
"  Justice  for  Ireland  1 "  too,  we  cry, 
"  Hang  every  agitator ! " 

It  was  not  without  some  "  agitation  "  that  we  indited  the  fol- 
lowing 

On   sarin    Mr.  JB« 

Now  prythee,  Mr.  Booth, 
Your  angry  passions  smooth ; 
The  dog-gerel  verse  you  write 
Can  bark  but  cannot  bite. 


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A  Few  Repartees.  107 

On  Borne. 
(Mb.  Booth's). 

Hate  and  debate  Rome  through  the  world  hath  spread, 
Yet  Roma  amor  is  if  backward  read. 
Then  is  it  strange  Rome  hate  should  foster  P    No, 
For  out  of  backward  lore  all  hate  doth  grow* 

On  Booth. 

(Our  Own). 

If  the  truth's  to  be  got  by  reversing  a  word, 
Let's  see  how  our  Editor's  name  may  be  blurred : — 
Since  a  "  booth  in  a  fair  "  is  of  jesters  the  home, 
It's  quite  M  fair  in  a  Booth  "  to  make  faces  at  Rome. 

The  pious,  orthodox  and  spiritual  clergyman  has  given  the  fol- 
lowing short  essay  on  fasting  and  abstinence.    His  title  is : 

Religion  not  in  Eating. 

Who  can  believe  with  common  sense 
A  bacon-slice  gives  God  offence  ? 
Or  that  a  herring  hath  a  charm 
Almighty  vengeance  to  disarm  P 
Wrapt  up  in  Majesty  Divine, 
Doth  He  regard  on  what  we  dine  ? 

Beply  1. 

A  u  common  sense1'  that  sounds  so  nice, 
Came  it  not  straight  from  Paradise  ? 
It  did :  'twas  there  the  first  great  cheat 
Said :  u  God  regards  not  what  you  eat." 

Reply  2. 

By  reason  similar  I  prove 
It  matters  not  what  wives  men  love, 
Their  own  or  yours — for  God's  too  high 
Such  paltry  matters  to  espy. 

Reply  ^ 

Though  there's  nought  in  the  stye,  nor  the  sea  and  the  sky 
That  can  wjn  us  Gods  love  or  His  vengeance  defy 
Yet,  if  for  your  meals  'gainst  the  Church  you  conspire, 
Ton  may  go  from  the  •*  frying-pan  "  into  the  fire. 

T*  E*  B. 


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(    108    ) 


A  WEB  OF  1BISH  BIOGRAPHIES. 

IS  this  present  sentence  the  first  that  has  contained  the  word  biogram  t 
Has  the  present  writer  the  luck  of  inventing  a  word  which  will 
become  current  in  the  English  language?  Surely  biography  cor- 
responds with  telegraphy,  and  telegram  ought  to  have  for  its  counter- 
part biogram.  Biography  is  "the  writing  of  lives,"  and  "the  life 
written  n  is  a  biogram.  ~  Let  this  word,  therefore,  be  henceforth  and 
forthwith  added  to  the  English  language. 

We  propose  soon  to  begin  a  series  of  "  Nutshell  Biograms,"  con- 
densing into  a  paragraph  the  chief  facts  in  the  careers  of  various 
interesting  persons.  Naturally  these  will  be  for  the  most  part  Irish ; 
and  it  will  be  well  to  pay  most  attention  to  those  who  are  not  found 
in  the  storehouse  of  Irish  biography,  lately  built  up  with  such  labour 
and  zeal  by  Mr.  Alfred  Webb,  in  his  admirable  "  Compendium  of  Irish 
Biography,"  published  by  M.  H.  Gill  and  Son.  We  have  derived  so 
much  pleasure  and  profit  from  our  habitual  use  of  this  great  work 
that,  though  we  have  more  than  once  introduced  it  to  our  readers,  we 
will  use  now  the  acoount  given  of  it  to  English  readers  by  one  of  our 
contributors,  which,  we  hope,  will  determine  many  of  our  own  readers 
to  obtain  possession  of  this  most  interesting  and  most  valuable  hook, 
one  of  the  very  best  ever  published  in  Ireland. 

For  those  who  feel  curiosity  or  interest  regarding  Ireland  and  its 
people,  and  who,  while  regretting  ignorance  on  the  subject,  complain 
that  the  history  of  the  country  is  unreadable,  we  would  recommend 
the  book  before  us,  as  conveying  a  vast  amount  of  information  in  a 
terse  and  attractive  form.  In  one  large  volume  we  find  gathered 
together  sketches,  long  and  short,  of  an  extraordinary  variety  of 
individuals,  all  more  or  less  distinguished,  who  have  either  been  Irish 
themselves,  or  through  their  writings  or  actions  have  exercised  an 
influence  over  the  fortunes  of  the  sister  island.  As  we  turn  over  the 
clear,  simple  record  of  soldiers,  saints,  sculptors,  statesmen,  poets, 
painters,  actors,  patriots,  novelists,  and  even  kings  and  queens,  we 
gather  without  effort  a  large  amount  of  knowledge  of  what  has  been 
going  on  in  and  about  the  country  during  the  progress  of  centuries, 
and  are  able  to  form  our  own  ideas  of  the  character  of  the  persons 
brought  under  our  notice.  The  book  is  written  with  remarkable 
fairness,  scrupulous  care  having  been  taken  to  avoid  anything  like 
colouring  of  creed  or  parly,  and  it  is  evidently  the  result  of  long  and 
conscientious  labour,  as  well  as  patient  research.  The  style  is  clear 
and  effective,  and  there  is  no  unnecessary  diffuseness,  the  biographies 
being  more  or  less  extended,  in  proportion  to  the  importance  of  their 


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A  Web  of  Irish  Biographies.  109 

subject.  Following  an  alphabetical  arrangement,  the  names  succeed  each 
other  in  curious  array,  and  the  startling  varieties  which  occur  make 
the  volume  a  pleasant  one  for  the  most  desultory  reader.  The  saint  of 
old  gives  place  to  the  brilliant  actress  of  the  last  century  whose  erratic 
career  is  vividly  outlined.  Side  by  side  with  a  stirring  and  well-con- 
densed sketch  of  Oliver  Cromwell's  career  in  Ireland  (drawn  from  his 
own  letters  and  the  pages  of  Mr.  Froude),  we  find  particulars  of  the 
establishment  of  the  linen  trade  in  the  north  by  Louis  Crommelin,  a 
Huguenot  refugee.  Under  the  letter  "  S,"  the  striking  group  of  the 
Sheridans  conies  before  us,  the  poets  Spenser,  Sterne,  Swift,  Steele, 
Erasmus  Smith,  Sheil,  and  others  hardly  less  interesting,  including 
the  late  Dr.  William  Stokes.  The  letter  "  B  "  introduces  us  to  many 
names  with  associations  of  the  most  varied  kind.  The  picturesque 
and  interesting  St.  Bridget,  with  her  quenchless  fire — 

"  The  bright  lamp  that  shone  in  Kildare's  holy  fane ; " 

the  ardent  St.  Brendan,  voyaging  in  search  of  the  mystical  island  of 
Hy  Brasail,  and  Brian  Borumha,  the  king  who  ruled  at  Tara,  make 
a  cluster  of  ancient  names,  which  find  their  place  near  Barry  the 
painter,  Balfe  the  composer,  the  Brothers  Banim,  Edmund  Burke, 
George  Anne  Bellamy  the  actress,  the  Countess  of  Blessington,  and 
the  Beresfords.  Under  the  same  letter  we  have  two  names  which 
transport  us  to  the  banks  of  the  placid  river  Nore,  with  the  fine  old 
castle  of  the  Ormondes  on  one  side,  and  on  the  other  the  green  and 
shady  lawns  of  Kilkenny  School,  where  Bishop  Berkeley  passed  his 
boyhood,  before  his  entry  into  Trinity  College.  The  account  of 
Berkeley  is  very  attractive,  and  offers  a  pleasant  contrast  to  the  annals 
of  the  warlike  Butlers.  In  the  record  of  Theobald  Walter,  founder 
of  the  House  of  Ormonde,  we  learn  the  origin  of  the  family  name, 
being  told  that  "he  was  in  1177,  as  a  mark  of  Royal  favour,  made 
Chief  Butler  of  Ireland,  with  a  perquisite  of  two  tuns  of  wine  out  of 
every  cargo  of  eighteen  tuns  or  upwards  breaking  bulk  in  Ireland." 

The  descendants  of  Theobald  Walter,  though  keeping  the  title  of 
Butler,  do  not  continue  to  tap  the  wine,  for  in  1810  the  Government 
bought  back  from  the  family  "  this  right  of  prisage,"  as  it  was 
called,  for  the  sum  of  £216,000.  Besides  his  Irish  property,  this  won- 
derful Butler  possessed  large  estates  in  Norfolk  and  Suffolk,  and 
founded  abbeys  and  churches  in  various  parts  of  Ireland  and  England. 
Following  his,  we  have  stories  of  the  various  earls  and  dukes,  with 
their  wives,  who  lie  in  effigy  to-day  on  their  black-marble  tombs  in 
St.  Canice's  fine  old  Cathedral  of  Kilkenny,  which  Cromwell  turned 
into  a  stable  for  his  horses,  and  which  has  lately  been  restored,  with  a 
good-taste  that  is  remarkable  in  those  days  of  pitiable  so  called  res- 
torations. We  are  told  of  one  who  was  called  the  "Noble  Earl,' 
another  who  was  the  "  White  Earl,"  and  after  them  comes  the  "  Black 


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HO  A  Web  of Irish  Biographies. 

Earl,"  who  was  in  such  high  favour  with  Queen  Elizabeth  that  she 
called  him  her  "black  husband,"  thereby  bringing  down  upon  him  the, 
wrath  of  Leicester,  whose  ears  he  on  one  occasion  boxed,  "  and  was 
therefore  sent  to  the  Tower." 

The  sketch  of  the  "  great  Duke  "  who  warred 'with  the  Irish,  and  lies 
buried  in  Westminster  Abbey,  presents  a  stirring  page  of  the  history 
of  his  time;  so  also  does  that  of  the  "  Red  Earl,"  and  his  wife,  the 
great  Countess  of  Ormonde,  who  was  one  of  the  most  beautiful  and 
remarkable  women  of  her  age  and  country,  and  who,  even  at  the 
present  day,  is  remembered  with  such  awe  and  fear  among  the  poor, 
that  mothers  will  say  to  their  children,  "  Be  quiet,  or  Margaret  will 
get  you  !  "  This  powerful  pair,  whose  well-preserved  effigies  in  black 
marble  adorn  the  handsomest  tomb  in  St.  Canioe's,  brought  workmen 
from  Flanders,  and  enriched  Kilkenny  Castle  with  tapestry,  diapers, 
Turkey  carpet?,  and  cushions."  Taking  them  all  in  all,  these  Butlers 
are  a  striking  race ;  and  we  are  told  by  O'Callaghan,  historian  of  the 
Irish  Brigades  in  France,  that  General  Lafayette  said  (during  the 
war  for  the  independence  of  the  United  States  of  America)  that  when 
he  wanted  anything  particularly  well  done,  he  always  got  a  Butler  to 
doit. 

Annals  of  other  remarkable  families  are  dealt  with  by  Mr. 
Webb  in  the  same  spirited  manner.  Pages  from  the  lives  of 
the  Dillons,  O'Neills,  McDonnells,  M'Carthys,  Fitzgeralds,  are 
full  of  the  romance  of  history.  The  Dillons,  who  were  for  the 
most  part  soldiers,  distinguished  themselves  again  and  again  in  the 
service  of  France,  and  one  of  their  race  was  that  Lord  Roscommon  of . 
whom  Johnson  writes  that  he  is  the  only  correct  writer  of  verse  before 
Addison,  and  whom  Pope  describes  as  the  only  moral  writer  of  the 
reign  of  King  Charles  II.  For  the  last  forty  years  the  name  has  been 
not  unmarked  in  Irish  politics. 

This  book  is  brightened  by  many  sketches  of  lively  ladies,  for  Mr. 
Webb  has  given  a  fair  share  of  his  attention  to  the  women  who  have 
in  any  way  left  a  mark  upon  the  annals  of  their  country.  From  Queen 
Meave  and  the  Fair  Geraldine,  and  the  beautiful  Miss  Ambrose,  who 
was  pronounced  by  Lord  Chesterfield  "  the  most  dangerous  Papist  in 
Ireland,"  we  pass  on  to  Peg  Wofnngton,  Lady  Beecher,  Julia  Kavanagh, 
the  authoress  of  the  Children  of  the  Abbey,  &c  Of  the  vivid  glimpses  of 
varied  lives  given  us  among  the  many  authors,  actors,  painters,  sculp- 
tors, poets,  and  statesmen  who  have  been  born,  or  who  have  dwelt  in 
Ireland,  we  have  hardly  room  to  speak ;  but  the  volume  is  alike  solid 
and  entertaining,  equally  desirable  whether  read  with  a  view  to 
acquiring  information,  or  taken  up  to  wile  away  an  idle  hour. 


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WINGED  WOHDS. 

We  are  such  deplorably  sensitive  creatures  after  all,  so  easily  cheered 
or  distressed  by  the  mere  fact  of  the  sun  shining  or  not.  Life  seems 
easy  one  day  because  the  sky  is  blue,  and  difficult  the  next  because  it 
is  grey ;  and  yet  the  grey  day  may  bring  us  better  things  than  the 
blue  one,  and  the  gift  will  be  the  more  precious  from  being  the  less 
anticipated.— J1.  D.  Gerrard. 

The  Irish  cause,  which  is  a  subject  for  a  sneer  to  the  political  "  philis- 
tines,"  has  always  had  for  me  an  irresistible  fascination.  The  Irish 
Celt — whom  English  caricaturists  usually  picture  either  as  a  gorilla  or 
a  baboon — has  noble  qualities.  He  loves  the  scenes  where  he  was 
born,  and  the  roof  which  sheltered  him  from  birth.  He  is  a  dutiful 
son,  a  faithful  husband,  and  a  kind  father.  If  his  dwellings  are 
unclean,  his  affections  are  pure.  He  is  patient  in  suffering,  and  un- 
wavering in  trust,  when  trust  is  given.  Like  Ixion  at  his  wheel,  he 
eternally  traces  the  same  circle  of  woes.  He  tills  a  few  sad  acres  for 
bare  life,  wears  a  few  poor  rags  for  bare  warmth,  and  he  softens  the 
hard  leaven  of  his  lot  with  the  dews  of  a  simple  faith  in  heaven.  The 
chivalry,  the  romance,  the  tenderness,  and  faithfulness  of  his  nature 
has  often  captivated  his  conquerors,  and  turned  the  descendants  of 
English  planters  into  the  foremost  of  Irish  patriots ;  and  it  has  made 
one  member,  at  least,  of  the  British  Parliament  as  faithful  a  friend  of 
their  cause  as  ever  the  green  flag  fluttered  over — Joseph  Cowen,  M.P. 

People  who  are  not  willing  to  suffer  for  what  they  pray  for,  do  not 
know  how  to  pray. — Wafted  Seeds. 

Some  men  can  do  without  the  praise  of  others  because  their  own  is 
so  unfailing.  Vanity  is  the  most  comfortable  of  vices* — Frederick 
Faber. 

One  does  not  readily  pity  those  who  pity  themselves. — Attie  O'Brien. 

Those  who  are  impatiently  trying  to  shift  their  cross,  instead  of 
lessening  its  weight,  only  wound  their  shoulders. — The  same. 

Regard  no  vice  as  so  small  that  thou  mayest  brook  it,  no  virtue  so 
small  that  thou  mayest  overlook  it. — Oriental. 

Both  liberty  and  property  are  precarious,  unless  the  possessors 
have  sense  and  spirit  enough  to  defend  them. — Junius. 

Have  a  purpose  in  life ;  and,  having  it,  throw  into  your  work  such 
strength  of  mind  and  muscle  as  God  has  given  you. — Carlyh. 

If  you  would  not  be  forgotten  as  soon  as  you  are  dead,  either  write 
things  worth  reading,  or  do  things  worth  writing. — Franklin. 

Sufferings  are  needed  to  turn  men  into  saints,  but  the  perfection  of 
a  few  would  perhaps  be  dearly  purchased,  at  the  expense  of  the  sins. 


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112  Winged  Words. 

of  many*  Hence  Providence  has  so  fashioned  the  human  kind,  that 
pain  and  shame  may  abound  without  sin.  It  is  therefore  a  com- 
fortable thought  that  the  world  has  no  lack  of  well-meaning  persons, 
who,  without  offending  God,  do  the  work  of  cutting  and  stinging  with 
a  native  adroitness  which  malice  itself  might  envy.— Bev.  William 
Hughes,  S.J. 

The  man  who  does  not  unceasingly  pray  to  see  the  face  of  his  God, 
desires  not  to  see  Him ;  and  he  who  desires  not  to  see  Him,  loves 
Him  not ;  and  he  who  loves  him  not,  no  longer  lives,  but  is  dead. — 
Cardinal  Bellarmine. 

More  failures  are  brought  about  by  a  want  of  faith  and  patience 
than  by  anything  else. — Anon. 

Adam's  children  must  work ;  Eve's  children  must  suffer. — Abbot 
Nikis. 

The  uselessness  of  almost  every  branch  of  knowledge  may  be  easily 
proved  to  the  complete  satisfaction  of  those  who  do  not  happen  to 
possess  it. — John  Stuart  Mil/, 

Man  is  a  being  placed  between  two  moments  of  time,  one  of  which 
no  longer  is,  and  th«  other  is  not  yet;  [Le  moment  oil  je  parle  est  deja 
loin  de  moiJ] — Louis  Veuillot. 

It  is  not  only  by  doing  the  right  thing,  but  by  doing  the  right 
thing  in  the  right  way  and  at  the  right  time,  that  we  achieve  the 
great  triumphs  of  life.  [Ce  n'est  pas  assez  de  fairs  Is  bien  ,•  ilfaut  le  bien 
faireJ] — Anon. 

Augustus  wondered  at  Alexander's  dread  lest  he  should  have  no 
more  worlds  to  conquer — as  if  it  were  not  as  hard  a  matter  to  keep  as 
to  conquer.  In  the  spiritual  warfare,  to  carry  our  advantage  further 
and  further  is  the  only  way  to  secure  our  conquests,  to  hold  our  own. 
— Anon. 

Some  people  have  a  habit  of  forgetting  to  think  of  the  possible 
wants  and  comforts  of  others,  but  easily  forgive  themselves  for  what 
they  euphemistically  call  "  abeence'of  mind."  They  save  themselves 
a  good  deal  of  trouble  and  expense  by  that  convenient  furlough. — 
Shirley  Brooks. 

We  must  sow  many  seeds  to  procure  a  few  flowers. — Anon. 

Work  is  the  substratum  of  our  daily  blessings.  Without  it  there 
may  be  brief  spasms  and  convulsions  of  excitement,  which  we  may 
call  pleasure,  but  no  continuous  happiness  or  content.  Wherefore, 
thank  God,  praise  God,  0  my  friends ! — ye  who  are  born  to  work, 
and  have  work  to  do. — Anon. 

A  Christian  whose  heart  is  pure,  is  upon  earth  like  a  bird  which 
is  held  by  a  thread.  Poor  little  bird !  He  waits  but  the  moment 
when  the  thread  shall  be  out  to  fly  away.—  Fen.  J*  A  Vianney. 

The  good  God  makes  greater  speed  to  pardon  a  penitent  sinner 
than  a  mother  to  snatch  her  child  out  of  the  fire. — The  same. 


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NEW  BOOKS. 

Lord  O'Hagan,  towards  the  close  of  his  life,  published  a  volume  of  his 
*•  Occasional  Papers  aud  Addresses ; "  and  he  left,  in  a  forward  state 
of  preparation,  a  collection  of  his  speeches.  These  have  now  been  pub- 
lished by  Messrs.  Longmans  and  Company,  of  London,  under  the 
editorship  of  Mr.  George  Teeling.  The  volume  consists  of  the  follow- 
ing divisions — Speeches  on  various  occasions,  speeches  and  arguments 
at  the  bar,  and  Parliamentary  speeches.  Only  special  classes  of 
readers  will  be  able  to  take  an  interest  in  many  of  these  discourses, 
admirably  effective  though  they  were  on  the  occasions  which  drew  them 
forth.  Many  of  them  may  be  studied  for  the  light  they  throw  on  the 
recent  history  of  our  country.  Thomas  O'Hagan,  when  a  mere  boy  in 
his  native  Belfast,  attracted  attention  by  his  faculty  of  graceful  speak- 
ing; and  this  power,  together  with  the  fascination  of  his  personal 
character  and  demeanour,  had  no  small  influence  in  making  his  career 
so  brilliant  a  success.  It  is  well  that  this  memorial  exists  of  the 
eloquence  of  the  first  Catholic  Chancellor  of  Ireland.  This  splendid 
volume  has  for  its  frontispiece  a  very  perfect  portrait  of  Lord 
O'Hagan. 

Messrs.  M.  H.  Gill  and  Son  have  brought  out  in  a  large  and  very 
handsome  quarto,  "  Waifs  of  a  Christmas  Morning,  and  other  Tales," 
by  Miss  Josephine  Hannan,  illustrated  by  Miss  Isabel  Whitgreave. 
It  is  difficult  to  fix  on  a  standard  by  which  to  judge  books  intended 
chiefly  for  the  young.  Miss  Hannan's  tales  are  sure  to  be  innocent 
and  edifying,  and  the  present  volume  is  besides  pretty  enough  exter- 
nally to  lie  on  a  drawingroom  table.  The  illustrations  do  not  seem  to 
throw  much  light  on  the  subject ;  but  young  people  like  pictures. 

Kaoul  de  Navery  is  a  French  writer,  who  has  considerable  reputa- 
tion as  the  author  of  sundry  harmless  romances.  Miss  Alice  Wilmot 
Chetwode  has  translated,  and  Messrs.  M.  H.  Gill  &  Son  have  published 
one  of  these,  "The  Treasure  of  the  Abbey,"  a  long  tale  of  more  than 
three  hundred  pages.  There  is  plenty  of  the  romantic  element  in  it, 
and  food  must  be  served  up  with  such  condiments  as  will  please 
various  palates.  M.  Baoul  de  Navery' s  cookery  pleases  many  French 
palates,  and  he  has  no  reason  to  complain  of  his  English  translator. 
But  there  are  epochs  of  history  which  need  the  light  that  clever  fiction 
can  throw  on  them  far  more  than  the  overwritten  period  of  the  French 
Revolution. 

Mr.  Washbourne  of  London  has  published,  with  his  usual  elegance, 
a  third  series  of  Lady  Herbert's  "  True  Wayside  Tales."  They  are 
seventeen  in  number,  and  the  scenes  are  laid  in  various  countries. 


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114  Notes  on  New  Books. 

Many  of  them  are  mere  anecdotes,  without  any  attempt  at  a  plot ;  and 
bo  much  the  better.  A  prayer  of  St.  Bernard  to  the  Blessed  Virgin 
comes  in  oddly  enough  among  the  stories.  It  is  given  in  English 
and  Latin,  not  as  accurately  translated  as  it  might  have  been,  and 
-with  two  glaring  misprints  in  the  Latin  title.  Many  readers  will  find 
more  to  interest  them  in  the  matter-of-fact  account  of  Lady  Herbert's 
Two  Months  in  the  West  Indies,  than  in  the  made-up  stories  that  fill 
the  rest  of  this  pleasant  little  book.. 

With  its  usual  punctuality  and  its  usual  fulness  and  accuracy,  the 
"  English  Catholic  Directory  "  comes  to; us  from  Messrs.  Burns  and 
Oates,  in  its  forty-ninth  year  of  publication.  It  is  admirably  compiled 
and  printed.  The  same  praise  must  be  bestowed  on  "  The  Scholastic 
Annual/'  which  Professor  Lyons  has  sent  to  us  all  the  way  from 
Notre  Dame  University,  Indiana. 

Messrs.  Cramer,  Wood  &  Co.  of  Dublin  have  published  Te  Deum  Lau- 
damu8  and  Jubilate  Deo,  composed  by  James  C.  Culwick.  Mr.  Culwick  is 
already  favourably  known  as  the  composer  of  a  clever  organ  Sonata 
(Novello,Ewer  &  Co., London,)  and  of  a  Quartet,  for  Pianoforte  2  Violins 
and  Violincello  (an  original,  spirited,  and  interesting  work)  inscribed 
to  the  Dublin  Instrumental  Club.  It  is  to  be  regretted  that  a  more 
numerous  and  appreciative  audience  for  such  a  high  and  thoughtful 
class  of  music  as  the  Instrumental  Quartet,  is  not  to  be  found  in  our 
city,  and  that  such  works  are  not  more  frequently  heard  in  it,  either 
privately  or  publicly.  The  above  compositions  contain  much  good 
music.  They  also  evince  such  heartiness  and  lofty  aspiration  as  would 
entitle  their  author  to  consideration  were  their  intrinsic  merits  much 
less.  Though  rather  limited,  we  like  best  the  Jubilate,  its  construction 
being  clear  and  original  and  thoroughly  vocal.  A  few  misprints  in 
the  Te  Deum,  easily  noticed,  will  doubtless  be  corrected  by  the  author 
in  next  edition.  The  work  is  with  permission  dedicated  to  his  H.E.H. 
the  Prince  of  Wales. 

We  earnestly  recommend  to  priests,  especially  to  young  priests,  a  book 
on  "  The  Divine  Office  considered  from  a  Devotional  Point  of  View," 
by  M.  Bacquez,  Director  of  the  Seminary  of  St.  Sulpice  at  Paris.  The 
English  translation  is  edited  by  Father  Ethelred  Taunton,  Oblate  of 
St.  Charles,  and  published  by  Burns  and  Oates.  It  forms  a  fine  volume 
of  six  hundred  pages,  and  very  properly  it  appears  in  what  the  Saturday 
Review  lately  denounced  as  "  the  Philistine  hideousness  of  cut  edges." 
The  price  is  marked  at  six  shillings.  Cardinal  Manning  begins  his 
brief  preface  by  quoting  St.  Leonard  of  Port  Maurice,  who,  when  asked 
by  a  priest  to  give  him  a  rule  of  life,  said :  "  Say  your  Mass  and  your 
Office  well."  St.  Joseph  of  Cupertino  said  almost  the  same  thing. 
This  excellent  book  in  its  English  dress  will  help  many  to  say  the  office 
well.  We  hope  that  a  second  edition  may  soon  be  required,  for  this 
reason  and  for  another  not  quite  so  complimentary— namely,  that  an 


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Notes  on  New  Books. .  115 

opportunity  may  be  afforded  for  the  correction  of  the  enormous 
number  of  misprints  that  disfigure  the  Latin  quotations.  It  is  very 
strange  that  in  such  a  book,  so  admirably  produced,  the  proof-read- 
ing has  been  neglected  in  this  respect.  We  suspect  that  a  dozen 
closely  printed  pages  might  be  filled  by  a  conscientious  table  of 
errata.  This  little  peculiarity  caught  our  attention  first  at  page  568 
where  we  have  in  a  single  sentence  primis  qui  for  primi*que,  primcevum 
for  primcBvam,  and  eumpeerent  for  eumpeerunt.  Turning  over  the 
leaves,  we  have  muletetur  for  muletetur,  caneUos  for  cancelloe,  and  sundry 
like  variations.  We  thought  at  first  we  had  been  unlucky  and  had 
alighted  on  a  passage  towards  the  end  where  vigilance  had  fallen 
asleep ;  but  further  examination  showed  that  these  blunders,  so  irritat- 
ing and  distracting  to  any  reader  with  a  proof-reading  eye,  are  sprin- 
kled impartially  over  all  the  book.  The  printer  evidently  confounded 
very  often  e  with  an  accent  and  i  with  a  dot ;  and,  thus  we  getpleni 
for  plenb,  feri  for  fere,  die  fidilee  for  dee  fidelee,  and  so  on  passim ; 
and  even  without  the  excuse  of  an  accent  didici  appears  as  dedici,  and 
Nicole  as  Nicoli.  Can  the  poet  Sartelon,  quoted  at  page  51,  be  San- 
tolius  ?  The  note  at  page  99  has  pecUmo  jeue  operi  tribunt  for  peaimoe 
<ejue  operi  tribuunt.  We  cannot  even  conjecture  the  proper  emenda- 
tion of  these  words  which  form  a  complete  sentence  at  page  85. 
"  Prosunt  haec  vel  non  sufficient ;"  or  at  page  234,  "  siout  apes  eedul 
mel  de  floribus,"  where,  on  the  opposite  page,  majestatis  is  disguised  as 
magistatis.  A  little  earlier,  at  page  211,  enarras  is  harder  to  recog- 
nise under  the  form  of  enduras.  This  curious  reading  occurs  in  quoting 
the  seventeenth  verse  of  Psalm  49,  quare  tu  enarrae  justttias  meae,  and 
when  it  is  quoted  a  second  time  at  page  217,  the  verb  is  all  right,  but 
the  noun  is  all  wrong ;  quare  tu  enarras  justitiam  tuam  ?  On  the  oppo- 
site page  it  is  stated  that  Blessed  Peter  of  Luxemburg  died  a 
Cardinal  Bishop  at  the  age  of  eighteen.  Did  he  P  Some  words  are 
stretched  out  like  pessumsumdant,  and  others  are  shortened,  as 
reeponeia  and  in  reprehendo.  There  would  be  no  difficulty  in  pointing 
out  many  such  unusual  forms  of  Latin  words  as  crediderent,  eequenter, 
carmena,  profitibatur,  pealtere,  por,  majoro,  nevim,  etc.,  etc.  The  well- 
known  words  of  St.  Augustine  receive  some  improvement  here  at  page 
209,  "Si  orat  psalmus  orate;  et  si  gemit  gemiti,  et  si  gratuletar 
gaudite ;  et  si  sperat  sperati ;  et  si  timet  timeti."  The  editor  very  pro- 
perly has  not  thought  it  necessary  to  give  always  a  literal  version  of 
the  French  author :  why  does  he  follow  him  in  quoting  the  "  Ch&teau 
•de  l'Ame  "  of  St.  Th6r£se,  and  mentioning  Father  Dalgairns'  Life  of 
St.  Stephen  Harding,  as  published  at  Lyons  P  Very  much  more  care 
-ought  to  have  been  taken  in  seeing  through  the  press  so  fine  an  edition 
of  so  excellent  and  edifying  a  work,  which  we  earnestly  recommend  to 
all  whose  *•  divine  duty  "  it  is  to  recite  every  day  the  Divinum  Officium. 
An  Irish  American  Sister  of  Mercy  has  translated  "  The  Principles 

— 


116  Notes  on  New  Books. 

of  Government  of  St  Ignatius1*  New  (York:  Oatholio  Publication 
Society).  The  excellence  of  the  work  is  guaranteed  by  the  fact  that 
it  was  compiled  by  Father  Peter  Bibadeneira,  the  favourite  disciple  of 
the  founder  of  the  Society  of  Jesus ;  and  the  excellence  of  the  transla- 
tion is  guaranteed  by  the  fact  that  it  is  from  the  pen  of  the  author  of 
the  best  "  Life  of  Mother  M'Auley,"  of  "  Leaves  from  the  Annals  of 
the  Sisters  of  Mercy,"  and  of  so  many  other  good  books,  that  an 
enumeration  of  a  dozen  of  them  on  the  title-page  is  followed  by  a 
double  et  cetera.  The  present  little  book  contains  no  developments  or 
disquisitions,  but  only  principles,  maxims,  and  examples.  It  will  be 
found,  we  think,  extremely  interesting  and  useful. 

Messrs.  M.  H.  Gill  and  Son  have  brought  out,  in  large,  readable 
type,  with  a  few  illustrations,  "  The  Life  and  Adventures  of  Robinson 
Crusoe,"  by  Daniel  Defoe,  edited  by  Eosa  Mulholland.  Miss  Multiolland 
in  her  short  preface  explains  why  this  edition  of  the  famous  old  book 
has  been  specially  prepared  for  the  use  of  Catholic  schools  and  the 
pleasure  of  Catholic  firesides.  Sundry  passages  in  the  original  are 
"not  quite  desirable  reading  for  little  ones  of  the  faith  to  which 
Daniel  Defoe  did  not  belong,  though  he  shows  us  Crusoe  struck  with 
wonder  at  the  devotion  and  heroism  of  a  Catholic  priest."  All  such 
passages  have  been  left  out,  "  so  that  neither  teachers  nor  parents  need 
hesitate  to  put  the  present  volume  into  the  hands  of  boy  or  girl  under 
their  control."  Miss  Mulholland  might  have  added  that  the  Second 
Part,  which  alone  is  suppressed,  was  only  an  afterthought,  that  suoh 
continuations  are  invariably  failures,  and  that  Mr.  Minto  and  all  modern 
critics  agree  that  the  dramatic  symmetry  of  the  work  is  complete  at 
the  point  where  this  edition  ends.  Three  hundred  and  fourteen  pages 
are  enough  to  tell  to  young  readers  the  "  Life  and  Adventures  of 
Robinson  Crusoe." 

"  The  Christian  Priesthood  "  (Burns  and  Oates)  is  a  sermon  preached 
by  Dr.  Hedley,  Bishop  of  Newport,  at  the  consecration  of  the  Bight 
Rev.  George  Vincent  King,  O.P. 

"  Popular  Objections  to  Catholic  Faith  and  Practice  Considered," 
by  William  Dods worth,  M.A.  (Burns  and  Oates),  is  an  excellent 
summary  of  the  chief  controversies  with  English  Protestants. 

"The  City  of  Refuge,  or  Mary  Help  of  Christians "  (Burns  and 
Oates),  is  a  little  collection  of  favours  received  from  the  Blessed  Yirgin 
invoked  by  that  title.  Richardson  and  Son  have  published  a  little 
book  of  "  Catholic  Religious  Instruction,"  suitable  to  Standard  III. 
And,  finally,  "  Merry  and  Wise  "  is  No.  I.  of  a  Magazine  for  Children, 
which  begins  with  a  picture  of  the  Pope,  and  a  few  kind  words  from 
Cardinal  Manning. 

Though  we  have  written  "finatty*  we  must  not  omit  to  recommend 
the  volume  of  The  League  of  the  Cross  Magazine  for  1885  as  very 
interesting,  very  useful,  and  very  ol.eap. 

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THE  FIVE  COBBLERS  OF  BRESCIA. 

BY  ROSA  MULHOLLAND, 

AUTHOR  OF  "  VAGRANT  YZBfl»,"  "  XXLLKXYT,"  w  XARCZLLA  O&ACSy"  1T0.,  *TC. 

RADIANT  summer  was  reigning  over  the  ragged  and 
picturesque  old  city  of  Brescia  1' Armata.  Italian  sunshine 
wrought  its  magic  on  everything.  A  blue  elysian  haze  encircled 
the  town,  with  gold-green  acacias  peering  sleepily  through  it, 
olive-hued  poplars  piercing  it,  and  the  fairy-like  towers  of  rock- 
borne  fortresses  shining  rosily  across  it  out  of  the  sky.  Red  roofs 
and  chimneys  burned ;  tall,  dingy  houses  lifted  their  painted  brows 
out  of  black  depths  of  shadow  and  grew  brilliant  with  gazing  at 
the  sun.  Narrowest  vicoletti  breaking  the  blocks  of  the  dwellings 
looked  like  dark  fissures  in  a  mountain ;  fresco  pictures  on  the 
fronts  of  the  houses  in  the  open  streets  blazed  with — almost— 
their  original  colour,  and  oleanders  in  the  rusty  balconies  flashed 
out  pink,  and  scarlet,  and  crimson,  making  garlands  of  fire  all 
down  the  time-darkened  walls. 

A  young  girl  was  entering  the  town  by  a  hilly  road  on  the 
outskirts,  a  solitary  figure,  threading  the  tall  poplars,  and  stir- 
rounded  by  a  background  of  scenery,  like  that  of  one  of  Titian's 
pictures.  A  blending  of  the  gay,  the  fantastic,  and  the  sombre  were 
noticeable  in  the  face  and  apparel  of  this  maiden,  making  her  pecu- 
liarly picturesque,  as  she  advanced  out  of  the  ethereal  blues  and 
greens  of  the  distance  and  took  her  way  through  the  deep-coloured 
streets  of  the  town. 

It  was  evidently  all  new  to  her,  for  she  gazed  at  everything  as 
a  foreigner  gazes.  In  the  market-place  she  peeped  curiously 
under  the  great  white  umbrellas  of  the  fruit  women,  and  spoke  in 
broken  Italian  when  she  purchased  a  piece  of  ripe  melon,  to 
quench  her  thirst  of  travel.  The  two  strange  men  of  metal  who 
hammer  out  the  hour  on  the  face  of  the  great  clock  made  her  start 
as  they  stepped  forward  to  their  work,  and  the  paintings  on  the 
f ronte  of  the  houses,  with  their  curious  stories  told  in  half -bril- 
liant, half -blotted  colours,  had  a  fascination  for  her  as  she  leaned 
against  a  wall  and  enjoyed  her  refreshment.  The  market  was 
going  on  at  the  time.  Carts  rolled  about,  voices  sang  and  shouted, 
the  yellow  curtains  fluttered  out  from  the  black  shadows  of  the 
Vol.  xit.  No.  163.    March,  1886-  10 

— 


118  The  Five\C<tbbters  o/Bretcia. 

little  shops  at  the  side  of  the  street,  figures  of  young  girls,  of 
mothers  with  children,  appeared  among  the  fire-flowers  in  the 
balconies  and  nodded  down  to  other  people  who  were  gazing  up 
from  below.  A  stone  pierced  the  girl's  shoe,  which  was  worn  with 
walking,  and  she  sat  down  on  the  steps  of  a  church  and  examined 
it  ruefully.  There  was  an  ugly  hole :  the  owner  made  a  little  wry 
face  as  she  looked  at  it,  then  laughed,  and  put  it  on  again.  "  I 
shall  earn  a  pair  of  strong  ones  before  long/'  she  said  to  herself, 
though  not  in  Italian.  "  I  must  pick  my  steps  until  then."  The 
shoe  was  certainly  not  a  peasant's  shoe,  yet  the  girl  was  dressed 
iike  a  peasant.  Her  brown  skirt,  black  bodice,  and  white  chemisette 
were  of  the  coarsest  materials.  Bare  and  sunburned  were  her 
pretty  round  arms  and  delicate  hands ;  a  scarlet  sash  hung  round 
her  waist,  and  scarlet  ribbons  tied  up  her  hair — silky  dark  hair,  a 
little  bronzed  at  the  edges.  Her  face  was  plump,  dimpled,  and 
exquisitely  moulded ;  her  eyes  were  dark,  luminous,  and  full  of 
humour.  A  white  coif  sheltered  the  eyes  at  present,  and  threw  a 
transparent,  flickering  shadow  all  round  the  face.  After  the 
accident  to  her  shoe  the  young  stranger  walked  cautiously  and 
with  a  little  limp  through  the  streets  of  Brescia,  and  the  people 
looked  after  her  as  she  went. 

In  a  street  which  descends  a  hill  five  cobblers  were  sitting  in 
the  open  air,  busily  engaged  with  their  work.  They  sat  on  five 
wooden  stools,  which  were  close  together  in  a  line,  and  each  man 
supported  his  feet  on  the  rail  of  the  seat  of  his  neighbour.  It 
almost  seemed  as  if  they  all  rode  a  single  wooden  horse  down  the 
brow  of  the  hill,  in  so  close  and  straight  a  file  had  they  ranged 
themselves.  First  in  the  row  was  a  very  old  man,  with  white  hair 
and  a  placid  countenance,  who  waxed  his  thread  often,  and  was  slow 
at  his  work ;  next,  his  sons,  two  elderly  men,  singularly  like  each 
other,  except  that  the  expression  of  the  one  was  morose  and 
abstracted,  while  that  of  the  other  was  nervous  and  fierce ;  fourthly, 
a  good-looking  young  man,  with  lively  eyes  and  a  confident  air, 
who  gazed  about  the  street  between  every  two  of  his  stitches ;  and, 
last  of  all,  a  second  young  man,  with  an  earnest,  intelligent  face, 
who  seemed  to  give  all  his  attention  to  his  work.  As  our  limping 
maiden  came  down  the  street  she  caught  sight  of  this  group,  and, 
hastening  up  to  them,  pointed  to  her  broken  shoe. 

"  Ciabattini  P  "  she  asked,  eagerly. 

"  Yes,  they  were  cobblers,"  answered  the  men,  raising  their 
five  heads,  and  gazing  in  surprise  at  the  liveliness  and  beauty  of 
her  face.    TJbaldo,  the  old  man,  looked  at  her  kindly ;  Trifonio, 

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The  Five  Cobblers  of  Brescia.  119 

r 

the  morose,  and  Grifone,  the  fiery,  regarded  her  with  grudging 
admiration ;  while  the  two  young  men,  Prisco,  the  son  of  Trifo- 
nio,  and  Silvio,  the  apprentice,  gazed  round  at  her  over  their 
shoulders  with  the  liveliest  interest  and  delight.  As  they  all 
stared,  with  their  thread  suspended,  the  young  stranger  suddenly 
broke  into  a  peal  of  the  most  delioiously  mirthful  laughter,  which 
shook  in  the  air  like  the  song  of  a  lark,  and  made  the  five  cobblers 
also  laugh,  though  they  did  not  know  what  they  were  laughing  at. 

"  Tou  all  look  so  funny ! "  cried  the  girl,  drawing  forth  a  fine 
white  handkerchief  and  wiping  the  tears  of  merriment  from  her 
eyes. 

"  This  is  not  business  ! "  growled  Trifonius.   "  Can  you  pay  P  " 

"  We  do  not  work  for  nothing,"  said  Grifone. 

"  I  have  no  money  at  present,"  said  the  girl ;  '•  but  I  mean*  to 
pay  you  afterwards." 

"  It  will  not  do,"  said  Trifonio. 

"  You  can  go  elsewhere/'  said  Grifone. 

"  Trust  her,  my  sons  I  "  said  Ubaldo.     "  She  is  a  stranger." 

The  girl  looked  np  and  down  the  street,  bending  the  broken 
shoe  back  and  forwards  in  her  hands,  and  then  she  glanced  wist- 
fully at  the  row  of  men  who  refused  to  help  her — 

"  If  I  had  a  needle  and  thread  I  could  do  it  myself/9  she  said. 

"That  you  could  not!  "  cried  the  old  man.  "Give  it  to  me ! " 
And  he  turned  it  over  and  over  on  his  knees*  It  was  a  dainty 
little  thing,  made  of  finest  leather,  embroidered  in  coloured  silks* 
"Pretty,  very  pretty!"  said  Ubaldo;  "but  not  like  what  a 
peasant  maiden  wears.  The  work  is  too  fine  for  my  trembling 
fingers." 

And  he  handed  it  on  to  Trif  onius,  who  surveyed  it  suspiciously. 

"  Stolen !  "  he  said,  and  flung  it  to  Grifone,  who  tossed  it  to 
Prisco. 

"  Gentlemen,"  cried  the  girl,  "  if  you  will  not  help  me,  do 
not  hurt  me.     I  will  go  further  and  find  kinder  fellow-creatures/9 

"  Not  so  fast,  little  one ! "  said  Prisco.  "  It  is  a  pretty  shoe, 
and  deserves  to  be  mended/' 

And  he  fell  to  work  upon  it  clumsily.  He  was  not  at  all  skil- 
ful, and  tore  the  delicate  leather  with  his  handling. 

"  A  curse  on  it !'"  he  cried.     "  It  is  too  nice  for  me ! " 

"  Give  it  to  II  Gorzone ! "  said  Ubaldo. 

And  Silvio,  the  other  young  man,  took  the  vexatious  shoe  in 
his  hands,  smiled  at  its  neatness,  chose  a  fine  bit  of  leather,  and 
put  a  delicate  little  patch  upon  the  rent.    Then  he  presented  it 

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J20  The  Five  Cobbler*  of  Brescia. 

with  a  look  of  simple  goodwill  to  the  stranger  maiden!  who  drew* 
it  oh  her  foot  and  dapped  her  hands  with  delight  to  see  how 
strongly  it  was  mended. 

"I  will  repay — I  will  repay !  Will  you  trust  me  P  "  she  cried,, 
fixing  her  eyes  upon  Silvio. 

"  That  I  will,"  he  said,  earnestly. 

"  It  is  nothing  to  him/'  said  Prisco,  quickly.  "  He  is  only 
our  apprentice.  Without  our  permission  he  could  not  have  put  a 
stitch  in  it." 

"  I  thank  every  one,"  said  the  girl ;  "  but  him  the  most.  Ah ! 
now  I  can  walk  further  and  look  for  work." 

"  Are  you  looking  for  work  P  "  cried  Prisco.  "  What  can  you 
do  P    Can  you  mend  my  boots  P  " 

"  No ;  but  I  can  scrub  a  floor,  cook  a  dinner,  dance,  sing,  and 
tell  the  truth." 

"She  is  a  lively  creature,"  whispered  Prisco  to  his  uncle 
Grifone.     "  Why  not  hire  her  at  once  to  supply  our  need  P  " 

"  Well  thought  on ! "  said  Grifone.  "  So  friendless  and  poor,, 
she  would  work  for  next  to  nothing." 

"  And  we  can  send  her  away  without  notice  if  she  offends," 
growled  Trif  onio. 

"  It  were  a  charitable  act,"  said  Ubaldo ;  "  but  here  comes  La 
Mugnaia,  returning  from  her  search." 

A  tall,  meagre-looking  woman  came  up  the  street  and  joined 
the  group.  La  Mugnaia  was  gaunt  and  sallow,  with  a  square,, 
wrinkled  face,  white  teeth,  and  large  brown  eyes,  her  head  com- 
pletely bound  up  in  a  yellow  handkerchief.  She  looked  stern  and 
wary,  like  an  old  soldier ;  but  when  she  smiled,  her  fine  brown 
eyes  softened,  and  a  surprising  sunshine  warmed  up  the  weather- 
beaten  countenance. 

"Well,  Orsola !  "  said  Trif  onio,  "  have  you  succeeded  in  find- 
ing us  a  maid  to  take  care  of  our  house  P '' 

"  No,  indeed,"  said  Orsola. 

"  There  is  a  young  girl  here  who  is  seeking  for  work,"  said 
Ubaldo.     "  Question  her/' 

"  What  can  you  do  P  "  asked  the  woman  of  the  girl. 

"  Put  me  in  a  house  and  try  me." 

"  What  payment  do  you  expect  ?  " 

"  Food  and  shelter,  and  anything  you  like.  I  have  to  work 
Up  the  price  of  mending  my  shoe." 

"I  will  take  her  with  me  to  Verona,"  said  La  Mugnaia,  "  and 


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The  Five  Cobbler*  qf  Brescia.  121 

there  I  will  provelier.  If  you  see  her  coming  back  yon  may  hire 
her." 

"  It  is  a  great  deal  of  trouble  for  nothing/'  grumbled  Prisco. 

"  La  Mugnaia  is  a  sensible  woman/9  said  Ubaldo.  "  Let  her 
manage  our  affairs/' 

"  If  the  signora  will  allow  me  to  add  some  strong  sandals  to 
her  shoes/'  said  Silvio,  "  she  will  be  better  able  for  the  journey.'9. 

The  two  women  departed  for  Verona,  and  the  cobblers  went 
on  with  their  work.  During  the  week  that  followed  many  a  glance 
was  cast  up  the  street  by  which  the  stranger  maiden  was  expected 
to  return,  till,  at  last,  one  day,  Silvio  startled  the  rest  by  crying 
out: 

"  Here  is  La  Scarpetta  coming  over  the  hill ! " 

" Bravo!"  said  Ubaldo.  "It  is  a  good  name — the  'Little- 
Shoe.'  " 

"  I  foresee  she  will  torment  us,"  said  Grifone. 

"Bob  us,  perhaps/'  said  Trifonio. 

"  Or  make  us  very  happy,"  said  Silvio,  whose  gaze  was  fastened 
gladly  on  the  merry  eyes  and  twinkling  feet  of  the  girl  who  was 
tripping  down  the  hill. 

"  You  are  a  pair  of  old  grumblers/'  said  Prisco  to  his  father 
and  uncle.  "As  for  you,"  turning  to  Silvio,  "  remember,  you  are 
only  the  apprentice." 

"  Nay,  Prisco ;  you  surely  do  not  want  to  fight  again,"  said 
Silvio,  good-humouredly.  And  Prisco  frowned,  but  pretended  not 
to  hear. 

Now,  tell  us  where  you  have  been  since/'  said  Trifonio, 
"  that  we  may  know  if  you  have  been  really  with  Orsola." 

"  I  have  been  living  in  her  little  mill  out  in  the  Adige,"  said 
the  girl.  "  The  water  rushed  under  our  feet  and  all  round  us. 
The  streets  were  above  us,  and  people  gazed  down  at  us  from  dark 
arches  over  the  water.  We  reached  our*  mill  by  a  plank,  swinging 
on  ropes,  across  the  river.  At  night  we  carried  a  lantern,  that  we 
might  not  walk  into  the  flood.  La  Mugnaia  was  hard  as  flint  on 
the  first  few  days,  and  sweet  as  honey  at  the  last.  She  sent  you 
a  cake  I  have  baked,  a  shirt  I  have  washed,  and  a  stocking  I  have 
mended." 

The  cake  was  tasted  and  eaten  to  the  crumbs,  the  shirt  was 
white  as  snow,  the  stocking  was  sound  and  no  lumps  on  the  sole. 

"  Go  into  the  house,"  said  Ubaldo ;  and  La  Scarpetta  became 
housekeeper  to  the  cobblers.  The  next  evening  Prisco  and  Silvio 
each  presented  her  with  a  pair  of  sturdy  shoes  of  his  own  making. 


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122  The  live  Cobblers  of  Brescia. 

Frisco's  were  large  and  clumsy,  and  fell  off  Her  feet ;  but  Silvio's 
fitted  Her  to  a  nicety.  Strongly  and  safely  shod,  she  danced  about 
the  floor  in  delight  while  Silvio  whistled  a  tune  for  her,  and  Prisco 
gnawed  his  lips  in  the  corner. 

"I  am  deeply  in  debt/9  said  the  little  dancer,  looking  at  her 
shoes,  and  then  at  the  Garzone. 

"  Give  me  the  old  ones,  and  I  am  paid,"  said  Silvio. 

"  I  also  have  a  right  to  them,"  said  Prisco ;  "  for  my  shoes 
would  fit  if  she  would  only  go  soberly." 

"  You  shall  each  have  one,"  said  the  maiden. 

"  I  will  have  both,"  said  Prisoo. 

"  She  shall  do  as  she  pleases,"  said  Silvio. 

" Shall P"  cried  Prisco,  insolently.  "You  who  came  to  us  a 
pauper — you  think  to  give  law  in  the  house !  " 

"  Give  up  the  shoes,"  said  Silvio,  determinedly. 

"  Come,  come !  "  cried  Ubaldo.  "  They  belong  to  the  house, 
and  we  will  use  them  as  a  sign  of  our  trade.*' 

And  the  little  shoes  were  hung  up  in  the  window,  with  their 
broken  soles  hid  from  view,  and  their  embroidered  toes  turned  out 
to  the  light. 

After  this  the  house  of  the  Five  Gobblers  proved  to  be  the 
merriest  house  in  Brescia,  La  Scarpetta  was  found  quick,  active, 
and  with  a  genius  for  making  people  comfortable.  She  was  more 
•child  than  woman  in  her  frolicsome  ways;  yet  had  wit  and 
shrewdness  enough  to  carry  on  her  business,  and  give  point  and 
liveliness  to  her  speech.  She  had,  also,  a  certain  dignity  and 
independence  of  manner  which  won  her  the  respect  of  her  many 
masters.  She  made  her  markets  before  they  were  up  in  the  morn- 
ing, served  their  food  delicately,  kept  the  place  garnished  with 
flowers,  and  often  sat  at  the  door,  in  the  cool  of  the  evening, 
chatting  to  them  while,  she  mended  the  household  linen,  or  helped 
with  the  finer  parts  of  the  cobbling. 

"  Our  sister-in-law  has  suited  us  well,"  said  Ubaldo.  "  This 
woman  was  really  born  for  the  comfort  of  man." 

"  Most  of  them  being  torments/1  said  Trifonio. 

*'  She  will  torment  us  yet !  "  growled  Grifone. 

The  ancient  Ubaldo  was  held  in  much  esteem  among  his 
friends  in  Brescia;  also  his  sons  Trifonio  and  Grifone.  They 
had  all  followed  the  cobbling  profession  from  their  youth,  had 
laid  up  some  money,  and  walked  in  honest  ways.  Prisco,  who 
was  their  pride,  was  to  be  endowed  with  their  savings,  being  already 
crowned  with  the  halo  of  their  good  name.    The  future  welfare  of 


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The  live  Cobblers  of  Breecia.  423 

Prisco  was  the  constant  theme  of  their  thoughts.    Anything  fras 
good  or  bad,  according  as  it  affected  the  glory  of  Prisco. 

"  This  servant-maid  has  bewitched  our  son,"  whispered  Qrifone 
into  the  ear  of  Trifonio,  one  holiday,  as  they  set  off  for  a  walk 
round  the  town,  Prisco  was  always  known  as  "  our  son  "  among 
the  elders. 

"Nonsense!"  cried  Trifonio.  "It  is  Silvio  who  is  in  love 
with  her/ 

"  You  take  this  too  easily,"  said  Grifone.  "  Prisco,  I  tell  you, 
is  also  infatuated.  And  do  you  think  she  will  prefer  Silvio,  the 
penniless,  to  our  son,  who  will  inherit  our  property  and  fine  position 
in  the  town  P  » 

"This  is  too  absurd/'  said  Trifonius.  "A  foreigner,  who 
dropped  from  nowhere  upon  us ;  a  beggar,  who  cannot  even  tell 
who  were  her  parents.     What  do  you  propose  to  do  P  " 

"  Send  her  away,  of  course." 

"  Ah,"  said  Trifonio,  "  she  has  made  us  so  very  comfortable. 
Let  us  first  reason  with  the  young  people." 

"  You  are  a  fool;  but  here  is  Prisco." 

"Prisco,"  said  Trifonio,  "I  am  anxious  to  tell  you  that  you 
must  not  think  of  marrying  La  Scarpetta." 

"  I  do  not  think  of  it,"  said  Prisco,  moodily,  " though  I 
cannot  deny  it  would  make  me  happy.     If  she  were  the  daughter 

of  a  rich  tradesman  now !     There  must  be  some  little  honour 

and  show  about  my  wedding." 

"  Our  son  !  our  true  son !  "  cried  both  the  fathers. 

"  You  will  give  her  to  the  Garzone,"  said  Grifone,  joyfully. 

"  Are  you  mad  P  "  cried  Prisco.  "  He  has  not  a  friend  in  the 
world,  and  has  not  even  learned  his  trade  yet.  Besides,  she  keeps 
us  both  at  an  equal  distance." 

"  Good  girl ! "  said  Trifonio.  "  It  is  better  thus,  as  she  makes 
us  so  very  comfortable." 

La  Scarpetta  was  standing  at  the  fountain  in  the  market-place, 
with  her  empty  pitcher  poised  on  the  brim,  looking  down  into  the 
quivering,  golden  water.  The  diamond  ripples  broke  over  the 
piquant  face,  the  warm  neck  and  arms,  and  the  colours  of  her 
dress ;  then  melted  away  and  allowed  her  eyes  to  meet  their  own 
gaze  in  the  tranquil  depths  of  the  basin. 

"And  this  is  I!"  said  the  servant-maid,  looking  at  herself . 
"  Ah,  they  will  never  find  me  out.  How  sweet  it  is  to  taste  liberty 
and  to  be  loved ! " 

Voices  caught  her  ears,  speaking  close  beside  her,  distinct  from 

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121  The  Five  Cobbler*  of  Breecia. 

the  noise  of  the  street.    Some  men  stopped  to  read  a  large-lettered 
bill,  which,  was  posted  on  the  wall  of  the  fountain. 

"  Who  can  this  be  P  "  said  one.  "  Is  she  some  thief,  whom 
they  want  to  catch,  or  is  it  a  wilful  lady  who  has  run  away  from 
her  friends  P" 

"  I  cannot  guess/9  said  another.  "  They  have  worded  it  so 
Tery  carefully.'* 

La  Scarpetta  turned  round,  and  eyed  the  men  with  a  frightened 
stare,  hurriedly  filled  her  pitcher,  and  then,  suddenly,  all  the 
strength  went  out  of  her  arms.  As  the  men  passed  on  she  was 
left  standing  quite  alone,  motionless — gazing  at  the  bill  on  the 
wall.  Silvio  found  her  thus  as  he  passed  by  the  fountain,  coming 
home  from  his  holiday  walk.  The  anguish  of  distress  in  her  face 
filled  him  with  amazement.  Never  had  he  seen  the  saucy,  mirth- 
provoking  maiden  look  like  this  before. 

"  Scarpetta  I  Carina !  Fellow-servant !  "  he  exclaimed,  in 
wonder.  "  Is  she  suddenly  changed  to  stone,  that  she  does  not 
even  hear  when  one  speaks  to  her  P  " 

"  Oh,  Silvio,  is  it  you  P  Lift  the  pitcher  to  my  mouth,  will 
you  P  I  am  so  thirsty.  That  will  do.  And  have  you,  also,  been 
keeping  holiday  all  alone  P  " 

"  Yes ;  and  do  let  me  say  it  once :  I  have  been  longing  to  have 
you  with  me.  I  have  been  out  in  the  vineyards,  where  they  are 
gathering  the  grapes.  I  have  been  haunted  by  a  picture  of  La 
Scarpetta  with  a  basket  of  grapes  on  her  head.  That  is  how  you 
ought  to  live,  playing  about  in  the  beautiful  open  country,  instead 
of  being  shut  up  in  this  vulgar  town." 

"  How  odd  you  are,  Silvio !  Imagine  any  of  my  other  masters 
taking  the  fancy  to  put  a  basket  of  grapes  on  my  head !  Where 
do  you  get  these  pictures,  I  wonder,  being  but  a  cobbler  P  I  see 
them  shining  behind  your  eyes,  sometimes,  when  you  do  not  give 
them  forth." 

"  Being  but  the  apprentice  of  a  cobbler,  and  not  even  one  of 
your  masters,  you  might  say.  Well,  I  would  rather  be  your 
fellow-servant  than  the  finest  master-cobbler  in  Brescia.  As  for 
the  pictures,  I  suppose  they  come  from  my  father,  who  was  a 
famous  artist,  and  through  whose  fault  I  am  now  where  I  stand. 
I  am  too  proud  to  speak  of  this  to  the  vulgar ;  but  I  feel  no  pride 
towards  my  little  fellow-servant.  I  was  brought  up  by  relations 
in  bitter  dependence,  and  I  left  them  to  learn  a  trade.  With  the 
help  of  that  lowly  trade  I  shall  place  myself  where  I  like." 

11  And  you  have  learned  it  well ;  for  I  notice  that  they  give 


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The  Five  Cobblers  qf  Brescia.  125 

you  all  the  delicate  work.    But,  Silvio,  will  you  read  for  me  what 
is  printed  on  this  bill  upon  the  wall  P  " 

"It  is  an  advertisement  for  the  capture  of  a  young  girl  who 
has  hidden  herself — either  from  justice,  her  friends,  or  her  enemies. 
A  reward  is  offered  for  her  discovery.  She  has  a  beautiful  face, 
and  is  supposed  to  have  crossed  the  Alps  all  alone Scarpetta !  " 

The  girl  had  turned  white  as  death,  and  caught  at  his  arm  to 
keep  herself  from  falling. 

"  Silvio,  Silvio !  where  shall  I  hide  myself  P  " 

Silvio  supported  her  to  the  fountain  and  dipped  her  little  ice- 
-cold hands  in  the  water. 

"  Poor  child,  poor  child  ! "  he  said,  in  amazement.  "  And 
this  is  your  story  P" 

"  Hide  me,  my  friend  !  '* 

"  That  would  be  madness,  poverina ! '*  said  Silvio.  "  You  are 
safer  at  your  work  as  the  cobblers'  servant,  than  you  would  be  in 
the  cunningest  hiding-place.  You  must  stay  indoors  as  much  as 
possible  for  awhile,  and  I  will  watch  for  you  all  I  can." 

"  You  do  not  ask  me  why  I  am  so  terrified,  and  what  I  have 
done.,, 

"  You  shall  tell  me  what  you  please,  and  when  you  please.  I 
cannot  love  you  more  than  I  do,  and  I  will  not  love  you  less.  You 
have  forbidden  me  to  speak  to  you  like  this " 

"  Ah,  it  was  so  good  to  be  at  peace.'* 

"  I  will  not  spoil  your  peace.  Let  me  be  your  friend  in  this 
difficulty.'' 

"  Heaven  bless  you,  my  friend.  Now,  Silvio,  go,  and  let  me 
get  home  in  my  own  fashion.'* 

Left  alone  once  more,  the  young  girl  lifted  her  pitcher  and 
took  her  way  bravely,  though  with  pale  cheeks,  through  the  streets, 
which,  late  a  refuge,  had  now  grown  a  terror  to  her.  She  shrank 
a  little  at  sight  of  every  bill  posted  on  a  wall,  and  fancied  that 
the  people  gazed  strangely  at  her  as  she  passed  along  the  path. 
When  she  returned  to  the  cobblers*  dwelling  she  found  Frisco  alone 
in  the  house,  leaning  dejectedly  against  the  doorway,  and  reflect- 
ing how  hard  it  was  that  his  position  in  the  world  would  not 
allow  him  to  bestow  his  hand  on  La  Scarpetta. 

"  Here  she  comes,  looking  as  pale  as  a  ghost.  Never  was  a 
girl  so  changed.  I  can  no  longer  have  any  doubt  that  she  frets  at 
my  coldness ;  yet  I  dare  not  tell  my  elders  that  she  is  in  love  with 
me.  Ah !  why  am  I  so  delighted  P  I  would  not  have  her  sent 
out  on  the  world  because  of  the  warmth  of  her  heart !  " 


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12$  The  Five  Cobblers  of  Brescia. 

Frisco  sighed  as  the  young  girl  set  down  her  pitcher  and 
silently  began  her  accustomed  occupations.  It  had  been  too  pain- 
ful to  this  self -loving  youth  to  believe  that  La  Scarpetta  preferred 
Silvio,  and  he  had  gradually  endowed  her  with  an  imaginary 
devption  to  himself.  He  found  it  pleasant  to  dwell  on  the  fancy 
that  he  had  tenderly  rejected  her.  This  idea,  at  first  a  plain, 
fallacy,  had  imperceptibly  become  a  delusion  of  his  mind ;  f or* 
when  we  will  what  to  believe,  we  can  believe  what  we  will.  The 
appeal  of  his  uncle  and  father,  their  earnest  request  that  he  would 
not  marry  La  Scarpetta,  had  given  a  reality,  as  of  proof,  to  his 
faith.  As  he  watched  the  young  girl,  who  had  forgotten  his 
presence,  she  sighed  bitterly ;  and  he  sprang  to  her  side. 

"  Have  courage,  ma  bella ! "  he  said.  "  It  is,  indeed,  a  hard 
fate }  but  time  will  cure  this  wound." 

"  What  do  you  mean  P  "  asked  Scarpetta,  turning  whiter  than 
before,  and  thinking  that  the  secret  of  her  identity  was  discovered. 

"  I  am  grieved  that  I  cannot  offer  you  my  hand.  It  is  not  for 
want  of  affection — that  I  swear  to  you ;  but  the  world  requires 
some  sacrifice  of  our  feelings." 

The  girl  stared  at  him— at  the  self-complacent,  sentimental 
look  on  his  face — and  catching  the  full  absurdity  of  his  meaning-, 
broke  into  a  fit  of  such  merry  laughter  as  brought  the  colour  to 
her  cheeks  again,  and  transformed  her  for  a  moment  into  the  old 
Scarpetta  once  more.  It  was  delightful  to  her  to  hear  the  sound 
of  her  own  laughter  again ;  and  she  laughed  and  laughed  to  the 
echo,  with  the  most  exquisite  sense  of  fun  and  enjoyment  of 
Prisco's  discomfiture,  who  blushed  and  frowned,  and  at  last  stamped 
with  his  feet,  and  walked  away  to  the  door.  He  saw  through  the 
fury  of  his  confusion  a  horseman  riding  up  to  the  door,  while 
Scarpetta' s  irritating  laughter  was  dying  away  in  gasps  of 
ecstasy  over  his  shoulder ;  and  then  there  came  suddenly  a  quick 
sharp  cry  of  anguish  from  within,  snapping  the  music  of  those 
mirthful  sighs,  followed  by  a  crash  of  something  breaking.  Prisco 
turned  his  head  in  astonishment.  The  dish  that  Scarpetta  had 
been  holding  was  smashed  upon  the  floor,  and  she  had  vanished. 

"  Diavolo ! "  cried  Prisco,  "  the  girl  is  a  witch !  "  and  then  he 
saw  the  strange  horseman  beckoning,  and  went  out  to  the  street  to 
speak  to  him. 

La  Scarpetta  was  on  her  knees  in  an  upper  chamber,  peeping 
with  one  eye  from  behind  the  window-curtain.  The  strange  horse- 
man was  richly  dressed  and  of  haughty  bearing,  with  a  dark  harsh 
countenance  and  a  sottish  complexion. 


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The  Five  Cobblers  of  Brescia.  127 

"  It  is  lie !  it  ia  lie  t "  wailed  the  girl,  quailing  as  his  eye   * 
roved  over  the  house ;  and  she  retreated,  wringing  her  hands, 
into  the  darkest  corner  of  the  room. 

"  Ah ! "  she  moaned,  "  what  folly,  what  ill-luck  is  mine  t 
Were  I  Silvio's  wife,  I  need  not  suffer  this  anguish  of  fear.  Oh, 
now  indeed  I  know  that  I  love  him  since  this  agony  is  upon  me ; 
but  I  have  made  him  afraid  of  me,  and  I  am  given  up  to  my 
fateP" 

At  the  same  moment  the  evil-looking  horseman  was  pointing 
with  his  finger  to  the  pretty  little  embroidered  shoes,  which  had 
been  taken  from  La  Scarpetta,  and  hung  up  as  a  sign  of  their 
trade  in  the  window  of  the  cobblers. 

"  These  shoes  are  stolen  goods/'  he  was  saying.  "  I  command 
you  to  give  them  up  to  me,  and  to  tell  me  how  you  came  by 
them." 

"  You  are  under  a  mistake,  Signor,"  said  TJbaldo,  who  had 
come  up,  and  was  holding  the  stranger's  horse  by  the  head,  merely 
as  a  mark  of  attention,  for  the  poor  animal  looked  too  tired  to 
have  any  wish  to  run  away.  "  We  came  by  the  shoes  honestly  ; 
but  if  the  Signor  cares  to  buy  them " 

"  You  bought  them,  perhaps,  from  a  young  woman  who  cam& 
travelling  through  the  town.  You  have  seen  the  walls  placarded 
with  inquiries  regarding  her.  Tell  me  where  to  find  her,  and  you. 
shall  be  handsomely  rewarded." 

"  It  is  many  weeks  since  she  called  on  us  here,  and  got  a 
strong  pair  of  shoes  in  exchange  for  these,"  said  TJbaldo.  "  She 
was  in  a  hurry  to  be  off,  and  inquired  about  the  road  to  Milan." 

It  is  dreadful  to  think  of  an  old  man  telling  falsehoods  like 
this.  Let  us  pray  that  Heaven  forgave  him.  Frisco,  with  Scar- 
petta's  irritating  laughter  still  ringing  in  his  ears,  had  a  sterner 
regard  for  the  truth,  and  called  the  stranger  as  he  rode  away — 

"  I  advise  you  do  not  leave  the  town  without  searching  it  well.1' 
He  was  not  wicked  enough  to  give  her  up  on  the  spot  to  her  foe, 
but  he  was  pleased  to  avenge  himself  by  prolonging  for  her  the 
torment  of  whatever  danger  beset  her.  As  the  stranger  nodded 
back  at  him  meaningly  and  rode  away,  a  faint  peal  of  thunder 
disturbed  the  serene  evening  air,  as  if  those  rosy  fortresses  that 
looked  so  ethereal  in  the  distance  were  opening  a  fairy  cannonade 
upon  the  town. 

"  Who  was  your  noble  visitor  P  "  asked  Trifonio  and  Grifone, 
breathlessly,  hurrying  up  to  the  door  as  TJbaldo  and  Prisco  stood 
looking  at  one  another  in  amazement. 


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128  The  Five  Cobblers  of  Brescia." 

"It  is  of  our  poor  Scarpetta  that  these  "bills  are  posted  over 
the  town,"  cried  Ubaldo.  "  Can  it  all  be  for  the  stealing  of  a 
pair  of  shoes?'* 

U*  "Poor,  indeed !  "  cried  Trifonio.  " How  pitiful  you  are,  my 
father !  A  thief  harboured  in  our  house !  And  here  is  Frisco, 
who  might  have  married  her  if  he  had  not  been  a  miracle  of 
wisdom. 

"  We  must  get  her  out  of  this,"  said  Grifone.  "How  nicely 
we  may  be  shamed  before  the  town." 

"Harbour  her  a  little  while,  my  sons,"  said  TTbaldo.  "She 
is  such  a  young  creature,  and  you  do  not  even  know  what  her 
fault  is." 

"  It  is  plain  that  she  is  escaping  from  justice.  Not  another 
hour  shall  she  stay  in  our  house." 

Scarpetta  did  not  ask  what  charge  was  against  her,  but  took 
up  her  small  wages  and  went  into  the  street.  XJbaldo  dropped 
tears  in  the  corner ;  but  he  was  only  a  weak  old  man,  with  no 
power  in  the  house  of  his  sons.  All  the  heart  that  Prisco  had 
was  aching,  but  he  liked  his  revenge. 

"  The  Garzone  will  protect  her,"  muttered  Ubaldo  to  himself. 

Scarpetta,  afraid  of  the  town,  fled  to  the  country ;  then  the 
sun  set,  a  thunder-storm  came  down,  and  the  terrified  girl  ran 
frantically  back  into  Brescia.  Lifting  the  curtain  that  hung 
before  the  entrance  of  a  queer  little  church,  she  saw  that  a  dim 
light  shone  out  of  the  place,  which  was  filled  with  people,  who 
seemed  to  the  frightened  girl  to  have  taken  refuge  there  in  terror 
like  herself.  They  were  singing  a  shrill,  wild  litany,  one  verse 
taken  up  by  the  men,  and  the  next  by  the  women— a  weird,  mono* 
tonous  chant  that  filled  the  ear  at  intervals,  and  was  lost  again  in 
the  roar  of  the  thunder.  La  Scarpetta  cowered  on  her  knees  in  a 
corner  of  the  church,  the  thunder  cracked  over  her  head ;  and  with 
her  hands  clasped  over  her  closed  eyelids  she  seemed  to  see  plainly 
the  harsh-looking  horseman,  his  piercing  gaze  fixed  on  her  and 
his  finger  pointing  cruelly  to  her  unlucky  little  shoes  in  the 
cobblers'  window.  Every  time  the  curtain  stirred  in  the  doorway, 
she  started,  expecting  to  see  him  enter  to  drag  her  forth.  The 
people  at  last  departed ;  the  fugitive  crouched  further  into  the 
shelter  of  the  shadow  of  a  confessional ;  and,  looking  up  with  a 
wild  glance,  saw  Silvio,  the  Garzone,  who  was  standing  beside  her. 

"  Have  they  found  me,  Silvio  P  Are  they  coming  to  take  me  P  " 

"  Nobody  has  found  you  but  me;  and  I  am  coming  to  take 
you — if  you  will  let  me." 

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The  Five  Cobtlers  of  Brescia.  1?9 

"  Take  me  where  P  " 

"  Over  the  mountains — out  of  this  trouble." 

"  And  your  work,  Silvio  P — and  your  masters  P  " 

"  I  have  broken  with  my  masters,  and  I  have  my  work  at  my 
finger-ends.  Be  my  wife  at  once,  and  we  will  seek  our  fortune 
together." 

"  Yet  you  do  not  know  whom  you  are  taking  for  a  wife." 

"  Kneel  down  with  me  here,  Scarpetta,  and  put  your  hand  in 
mine.  Say,  *  Silvio,  I  am  an  honest  woman.'  You  dare  not,  if 
it  were  untrue." 

"  Silvio,  I  am  an  honest  woman." 

They  remained  kneeling  hand-in-hand,  like  two  children  pray- 
ing in  the  loneliness  and  darkness  of  the  church.  The  one  dim 
red  lamp  burned,  the  thunder  ceased,  the  deathlike  hour  of  the 
night  went  past,  dawn  peered  through  the  rudely  painted  windows, 
and  an  old,  white-haired  priest,  half- vested  for  mass,  opened  the 
«acristy  door  and  looked  into  the  church. 

This  old  priest  stopped  muttering  his  prayers  when  he  saw  the 
two  pale-faced  young  people  standing  before  him. 

"  Marry  us,  holy  father  !  "  said  Silvio,  "  We  are  going  a  long 
journey,  and  must  get  away  betimes." 

"  This  is  the  girl  who  is  flying  from  justice,"  said  the  priest, 
sternly. 

"  I  will  help  her  to  fly,"  said  Silvio,  "  for  I  am  satisfied  that 
■she  is  good." 

"  You  are  a  youth  of  good  birth,  and  will  rise  in  the  world," 
said  the  padre.  "  Remember,  I  know  your  story.  Will  you  not 
-afterwards  repent  of  having  married  a  servant-maid  P  " 

11 1  cannot  give  her  up  to  her  enemies,"  maintained  Silvio. 

"  You  have  not  confessed  even  to  him  P  "  said  the  priest,  turn- 
ing to  the  girl. 

"  No,"  said  La  Scarpetta. 

The  old  man's  cheeks  flushed,  and  his  eyes  brightened — 

"  Be  grateful  to  him,  my  daughter,"  he  said.  "  I  know  your 
secret,  and  I  will  give  you  to  him.  May  God  make  you  both  happy 
ior  evermore!" 

And  the  apprentice  and  the  little  maid-servant  went  out  into 
the  morning  sunlight  man  and  wife. 

Silvio  was  quite  surprised  to  see  how,  as  they  went  along  the 
streets,  his  bride  seemed  to  forget  her  terror,  and  smiled  back  at 
the  people  who  stared  at  her.     She  even  lingered,  here  and  there, 

Vol.  xiv.  No.  163.  11 


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130  The  Five  Cobblers  of  Brescia. 

to  gaze  up  at  the  paintings  on  the  houses,  saying  she  had  never 
seen  them  look  so  handsome  before. 

"  But  you  are  still  in  Brescia,  my  dearest,  and  your  enemy  is 
close  by.    Let  us  hasten  and  get  out  of  danger." 

"  I  am  saying  farewell  to  Brescia,  Silvio.  It  has  been  good  to 
me,  since  I  am  leaving  it  with  you.  As  for  my  enemy,  I  no  longer 
fear  him.'* 

The  young  people  took  the  road  to  Verona,  and  late  one 
evening  they  arrived  there,  going  to  seek  for  La  Mugnaia  in  her 
little  mill  out  in  the  Adige.  They  stood  on  the  bridge  which 
carried  the  town  across  the  river,  and  saw  the  dark  water  rushing 
and  the  twinkling  lights  sliding  along  through  the  air,  like  falling 
stars,  as  people  passed  to  or  fro  on  the  swinging  planks  that  led 
out  to  the  little  water-bound  dwelling.  They  discovered  the  mill 
they  were  in  search  of,  and,  lantern  in  hand,  went  riding  across 
the  night,  as  it  seemed,  on  the  rickety  plank  that  led  to  La 
Mugnaia's  door. 

The  milleress  gave  them  a  hearty  welcome,  but  looked 
extremely  grave  when  she  heard  the  whole  of  their  story. 

"  That  is  all  very  pretty,"  she  said,  squaring  her  arms  and 
fixing  her  wary  brown  eyes  on  the  little  wife,  "  trust  and  gene- 
rosity are  good  in  the  right  place ;  but  you  ought  to  have  told 
what  this  cloud  is  that  hangs  over  you.  And  you,  Silvio,  I  have 
known  you  many  years ;.  you  are  a  respectable  young  man,  and 
ought  not  to  have  married  a  girl  who  has  done  anything  improper/* 

u  She  shall  speak  when  she  likes,"  said  Silvio. 

"  Let  her  speak  now/'  said  La  Mugnaia.  "  If  she  has  done 
wrong,  and  is  sorry,  we  will  try  and  shield  her ;  but  let  there  be 
no  secrets  between  a  man  and  his  wife." 

La  Scarpetta  stood  twisting  the  corner  of  her  sash,  and  glancing 
shyly  from  one  to  another  of  the  faces,  on  which  the  lamp-light 
shone  at  each  side  of  her ;  and  she  said  to  the  miller-woman — 

"  I  will  tell  my  story  here,  and  you  shall  be  my  judge.  If 
what  I  have  done  has  wronged  him,  he  shall  put  me  away.  One 
thing  I  must  set  right  for  you ;  I  have  not  stolen  anything  from 
the  horseman  who  is  searching  for  me,  not  even  the  shoes  in  the 
window,  which  were  my  very  own  till  I  gave  them  to  TJbaldo.,, 

"  I  knew  that,"  said  Silvio. 

"The  Signor  is  my  uncle,  and  the  guardian  of  my  pro- 
perty  " 

"  Ah — we  have  here  a  noble  lady  !  "  said  La  Mugnaia,  aghast. 

"  Silvio  may  perhaps  make  me  one,  but  he  found  me  a  maid- 


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The  Five  Cobblers  of  Brescia.  131 

servant,  suspected  of  crime.  As  it  is,  I  am  almost  totally  unedu- 
cated and  ignorant  of  the  world.  I  ran  away  from  my  home 
because  I  found  it  a  place  of  horror.  The  Alpine  precipices  had 
no  terrors  for  me,  though  I  travelled  by  them  alone.  I  was 
escaping  from  a  living  death,  and  my  freedom  was  delicious  to  me. 
You  must  be  filled  with  curiosity,  and  I  do  not  make  my  story 
plain.  My  castle  is  on  one  of  those  mighty  rocks  that  overhang 
the  Upper  Rhine.  Heaven  help  the  poor  creature  there  walled  up, 
who  pines  to  escape !  Yet  I  escaped.  I  was  a  prisoner  there, 
indeed ;  for  by  my  father's  will  all  his  fine  possessions  were  to  be 
enjoyed  by  his  brother  until  my  marriage ;  and  my  uncle  was 
resolved  that  I  should  never  deprive  him  of  what  he  chose  to  call 
his  own.  I  did  not  wish  to  marry.  I  feared  all  men,  having 
known  none  but  the  harshest  of  their  kind  ;  but  I  loathed  to  be 
within  sight  and  sound  of  the  wicked  and  riotous  living  of  my 
uncle  and  his  chosen  companions.  I  longed  to  be  free,  like  the 
peasants  who  walk  on  the  hills ;  and  by  the  help  of  a  faithful  old 
nurse  I  escaped.  I  dressed  myself  like  a  peasant,  and  crossed  the 
Alps  alone.  In  putting  on  a  strange  costume  I  forgot  to  change 
my  shoes." 

Silvio  and  the  woman  of  the  mill  stood  gazing  at  the  girl  in 
utter  amazement. 

"  And  knowing  that  you  were  a  noblewoman,  you  chose  to 
marry  a  cobbler,'9  said  La  Mugnaia. 

"  Heaven  never  made  him  to  be  a  cobbler,"  said  La  Scarpetta. 

"  That  is  true/'  said  La  Mugnaia.  "  Be  you  what  you  may, 
he  is  good  enough  for  you.  Excuse  me,  lady,  but  I  cannot  forget 
that  I  gave  you  lessons  in  baking  bread  and  sweeping  floors." 

"  Ah,  Scarpetta !  "  said  Silvio,  "  what  a  wrong  you  have  done 
yourself — you  who  ought  to  have  married  a  nobleman/' 

"  And  so  I  have,  Silvio,  else  I  can  tell  you  I  should  not  have 
married  at  all.  Prisco  could  never  have  saved  me  as  you  have 
done ;  for  one  great  misery  is  as  bad  as  another.  I  thank  Heaven 
that  by  your  act  of  generosity  you  have  unconsciously  enriched 
yourself." 

Whilst  they  were  yet  talking  the  daylight  broke,  and  looking 
out  of  the  window,  La  Mugnaia  saw  a  whole  company  of  strangers 
on  the  river-side.  They  were  the  four  remaining  cobblers,  with 
the  haughty  horseman  and  his  servants. 

"  These  friends  have  travelled  so  far  to  see  my  downfall,"  said 
Scarpetta,  mournfully.     "  Ah,  Silvio,  your  sex  are  unkind." 

"  Nay,  some  of  them  may  hope  to  help  you,"  said  Silvio.  "  I'll 


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132  The  King. 

%j  my. life  that  the  old  man,  TJbaldo,  does.    My  good  Orsola, 
these  visitors  will  sink  your  little  mill  with  their  weight." 

"  Let  them  come  over/'  said  La  Mugnaia,  gleefully.  "  The 
mill  must  take  its  chance.  It  will  be  rare  sport  tp  see  them  all 
walking  back,  one  by  one,  across  our  plank,  hanging  their  heads 
with  vexation." 

"  Enter,  gentlemen,"  said  Orsola,  opening  her  door. 

"  Caught  now,  I  think,"  cried  the  fierce-looking  Signor,  grasp- 
ing La  Scarpetta  rudely  by  the  hand.  '*  Ah,  my  runaway  maiden, 
I  shall  trouble  you  to  follow  me  to  your  home.'* 

"No,  my  lord,"  said  Silvio,  "for  the  law  allows  a  wife  to 
follow  her  husband." 

"  Fool ! "  cried  the  enemy,  turning  pale ;  "  this  girl  is  no  wife." 

At  this  moment  the  old  priest  was  seen  hurrying  across  the 
river,  clutching  the  rope  in  both  hands,  as  the  plank  danced  under 
his  feet. 

€t  Go  away,  Signor !  "  he  cried,  "  and  leave  this  noble  youth 
and  his  wife  in  peace.  Go  across  the  Alps,  and  make  straight 
your  accounts  of  the  moneys  and  lands  which  were  left  in  your 
charge.  Your  niece  and  her  husband  will  give  you  just  one 
month  to  betake  yourself  and  your  fellows  from  her  dwelling 
In  the  name  of  the  Church  and  of  the  law  of  the  country,  I,  who, 
married  these  young  people,  knowing  fully  both  their  histories, 
command  you  to  begone  and  to  interfere  with  them  no  more." 

La  Mugnaia  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  the  company  of 
strange  visitors  departing  across  the  plank,  TJbaldo  alone  being 
invited  to  remain  with  the  victorious  and  happy  bride  and  bride- 
groom. 


THE  KING. 

A  YOUNG  heart  sang  in  the  summer  dawn : 
"  O  breeze,  float  swift  and  free  5 
0  streamlet,  play — 0  rose,  bloom  on, 
For  life  is  fair  to  me  t " 


A  young  heart  sang  in  the  summer  dawn : 
'  u  O  flower,  0  bird,  O  spring, 
I  have  made  a  throne  so  bright  and  lone, 
And  who  will  be  its  King  ?  " 

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The  King.  133 

A  young  heart  *ang  in  the  summer  dawn, 

When  love  with  golden  wing 
Flew  softly  on  to  the  waiting  throne 

And  said, "  I  am  its  King  I " 

The  dawn  flushed  into  a  lustrous  noon; 

The  hours  with  glow  and  gleam 
Thrilled  warmly  'neath  the  skies  of  June, 

A  passion-laden  dream. 

A  young  heart  sang  to  its  chosen  king : 
"  0  Love,  how  blest  am  I ! 

Ohl  fold  my  fate  'neath  thy  strong,  soft  wing- 
Thus  folded,  let  me  die ! " 

The  day  sailed  on  down  its  westward  path, 

But  the  shadows  thronged  amain 
O'er  an  empty  throne,  a  broken  faith, 

And  a  memory  steeped  in  pain. 

A  sad  heart  wept  in  the  midnight  gloom ; 

u  O  flowers,  veil  your  shine ; 
0  streamlet,  hush,  for  a  dark,  dark  doom 

And  songless  lot  are  mine." 

A  sad  heart  mourned  in  the  starlight  lone, 

When  Sorrow  glided  nigh 
And  made  his  home  on  the  ruined  throne, 

And  said,  "Its king  ami!" 

His  crown  was  of  thorn,  his  mantle  red, 

And  a  cross  his  bitter  load  5 
But  his  touch  was  strength,  and  his  glances  shed 

Soft  light  on  the  darkened  road. 

A  strong  heart  held,  through  a  lightless  day, 

A  pain  that  had  lost  its  sting ; 
A  brave  life  sped  on  the  heavenward  way, 

For  Sorrow  was  crowndd  King ! 

Oassib  M.  O'Haba. 


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(    134    ) 

JOHN  MITCHEL'S  DAUGHTER. 
By  the  Editor. 

r[S  is  very  like  the  title  of  a  story,  but  it  is  only  meant  to 
link  the  memory  of  an  Irish  girl,  of  whom  the  world  has 
never  heard,  with  that  of  an  Irishman  of  whom  the  world  has 
heard  a  great  deal.  There  lies  before  me  one  of  those  paper- 
covered  books  which  French  publishers  issue  so  prodigally.  It 
contains  a  hundred  and  thirty  pages  and  bears  this  title :  "  Notice 
but  la  Conversion  au  Catholicisme  de  H.  M.,  morte  au  Couvent  du 
Sacrfi  Ccbut  &  Paris  le  18  Avril,  1863."  This  "H.  M."  was 
Henrietta  Mitchel,  daughter  of  the  famous  author  of  the  "Life 
of  Aodh  O'Neill "  and  of  the  marvellously  clever  "  Jail  Journal," 
and  editor  of  the  short-lived  but  by  no  means  still-born  "  United 
Irishman"  of  1848. 

Almost  every  one  who  will  care  to  glance  at  these  pages  is 
acquainted  with  at  least  the  outline  of  Mitchel's  strange  career. 
A  sketch  of  his  life  and  a  selection  from  his  writings  ought  to  be 
published.  The  most  accessible  account  of  him  is  to  be  found  in 
Mr.  Alfred  Webb's  lc  Compendium  of  Irish  Biography,"  but  it 
begins  with  a  mistake  in  stating  that  Mitchel  was  born  in  Newry. 
Richard  Dalton  Williams,  writing  in  the  Irish  Tribune  on  June 
10,  1848,  a  week  or  two  after  Mitchel's  conviction,  speaks  of  his 
having  been  "  brought  up  in  Newry,  and  hence  the  prevalent  error 
of  his  having  been  born  there ;  "  but  he  himself  falls  into  another 
error  in  making  the  town  of  Deny  his  birthplace.  John  Mitchel 
was  the  eldest  son  of  a  Presbyterian  minister  who  had  been  one  of 
the  United  Irishmen  in  his  young  days,  and  who  was  living  at 
Camnish  near  Dungiven  in  the  county  of  Deny,  when  his  son. 
was  born  on  the  3rd  of  November,  1815.  Having  become  a 
Unitarian,  he  was  invited  to  take  charge  of  the  congregation  in 
Newry.  Young  Mitchel  took  his  degree  of  B.A.  in  Trinity 
College,  Dublin,  which  he  entered  about  his  fifteenth  year.  He 
became  an  attorney,  and,  as  partner  with  Mr.  Samuel  Eraser  of 
Newry,  lived  at  Banbridge,  a  small  town  in  the  neighbourhood. 
But,  before  this,  during  his  apprenticeship,  he  married  Miss  Jane 
Yerner,  against  the  wishes  of  her  father,  Captain  Yerner,  brother 
of  Sir  William  Yerner,  Bart.,  well  known  among  the  Orange 


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John  MitcheTs  Daughter.  135 

Ulster  aristocracy  of  that  bygone  day.  The  bride  was  a  school- 
girl, not  yet  sixteen  years  old,  and  only  in  this  respect  disqualified 
for  Longfellow's  hexameter : 

"  Fair  was  she  to  behold,  that  maiden  of  seventeen  summers." 
Webb  gives  1835  as  the  date  of  his  marriage,  when  he  was  twenty 
years  of  age ;  and  this  is  more  likely  than  the  statement  of  the 
writer  in  the  Irish  Tribune  that  the  bridegroom  had  only  attained 
the  age  of  Evangeline  mentioned  a  moment  ago. 

I  have  not  forgotten  that  the  subject  of  this  paper  is  John 
MitchePs  daughter.  At  some  future  time  something  may  be  said 
about  John  Mitchel  himself  ;  but,  as  it  often  happens  that  those 
future  times  never  become  present,  I  will  venture,  without  daring 
to  ask  leave,  to  print  here  an  extract  from  an  extract  which  I 
made  surreptitiously  from  some  notes  which  had  the  misfortune  to 
pass  through  my  hands,  which  were  jotted  down  without  the 
faintest  idea  of  publication  in  any  form,  and  to  which  the  name  of 
the  writer  would  add  interest  and  value.  Henrietta  Mitchel  was 
born  in  October,  1842,  and,  when  she  was  a  "  toddling  wee  thing  '' 
of  three  or  four  years,  her  father  made  the  following  impression 
on  an  observant  lad  eight  or  nine  years  older  : 

"The  only  time  I  ever  recollect  seeing  John  Mitchel  was 
when  the  railway  from  Dublin  reached  no  further  north  than 
Drogheda.  We  were  both  going  to  Dublin,  and  both  got  on  the 
coach  together  on  the  Ballybot  side  of  the  town,  close  to  Turners 
Glen.  He  was  a  man  not  easily  forgotten,  and  his  conversation 
and  appearance  made  a  deep  impression  upon  the  little  lad  his 
fellow-traveller  that  day.  I  well  recollect  his  dark  straight  hair, 
almost  whiskerless  face,  and  sallow,  colourless,  bloodless  complexion, 
which,  combined  with  a  certain  sharpness  of  feature  and  nobility 
of  b'row  gavejiim  a  peculiarly  intellectual  appearance,  with  a  look 
almost  of  the  ascetic.  The  square  character  of  his  jaw  and  the 
firmness  of  his  mouth  conveyed  the  notion  of  a  resolute,  not  to 
Bay  obstinate  man — a  notion  which  was  not  removed  by  the  look 
of  his  dark  grey  eyes  which  seemed  full  of  dreams  and  melan- 
choly. 1  still  think  him  the  most  brilliant  journalistic  writer  I 
have  ever  known,  He  had  not  perhaps  the  breadth  of  Frederick 
Lucas,  nor  the  wide  information  of  Gavan  Duffy,  nor  the  tender 
pathetic  imagination  of  Thomas  Davis ;  but  his  style  was  more 
terse,  vigorous,  and  to  the  point  than  theirs,  and  was  wholly  free 
from  affectation  of  scholarship  foreign  to  the  matter  in  hand. 
Occasionally  in  a  sentenoe  he  could  condense  a  world  of  argument. 
One  instance  occurs  to  me.     In  one  of  a  series  of  letters  addressed 


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136  John  MitcheVs  Daughter. 

to  the  Orangemen  of  the  North,  lie  is  pointing  out  to  them  why* 
they  should  be  in  the  van  of  the  National  movement  as  their 
fathers  had  been  in  1782  and  1798,  and  he  is  meeting  an  objection 
supposed  to  be. made  by  an  Orangeman  then  and  certainly  fre- 
quently made  for  him  since,  namely,  that  to  join  with  the  Irish 
Papist  would  be  to  join  the  children  of  Antichrist,  and  so  on. 
Each  Twelfth  of  July  celebration  makes  us  familiar  with  this  kind  of 
thing.  John  Mitchel  did  not  proceed  gravely  to  argue  that,  after 
all,  the  evidence  was  not  quite  conclusive  that  the  Pope  was  really 
Antichrist,  and  that,  at  all  events,  all  Irishmen,  even  Irish  Papists,, 
were  bound  up  with  the  weal  or  woe  of  their  country.  He  did 
none  of  these  things.  In  the  language  of  the  now  defunct 
special  pleader  he  put  in  a  plea  of  confession  and  avoidance.  He 
wrote  a  single  line :  *  The  Pope  may  be  Antichrist,  but,  Orange- 
men of  the  North,  he  serves  no  ejectments  in  Ulster.' " 

Let  me  emphasise  one  little  point  in  this  extract.  Mitchel  is 
described  as  waiting  for  the  Dublin  coach  at  "  Turner's  Glen,"  as  it 
was  called  at  that  time,  just  beside  Dromalane  and  the  house  where 
Mitchel  had  spent  his  boyhood — the  very  house  to  which  through  a 
strange  combination  of  circumstances  he  was  to  return  in  the  last 
week  of  his  life  after  all  his  vicissitudes  and  all  his  wanderings — 
after  "Nation,"  and  "United  Irishman,"  and  Green-street,  and  the 
Shearwater,  and  Spike  Island,  and  the  Bermudas,  and  Van  Diemen's 
Land,  and  New  York,  and  Richmond,  and  Paris,  and  at  the  end  his- 
election  for  Tipperary.  And  so  he  died  at  home  at  last  on  March  20th, 
1875.   Let  the  reader's  memory  supply  Goldsmith's  beautiful  simile. 

The  tribute  paid  here  to  Mitchel's  power  as  a  public  writer  may 
be  paired  with  a  still  higher  compliment  which  I  rescue  from  a 
newspaper  scrap  a  year  or  two  old.  Mr.  Thomas  Sexton,  M.P.,  in 
a  mere  incidental  speech  as  chairman  at  a  lecture  in  which  editors- 
were  referred  to,  recalled  some  of  the  chief  names  in  Irish  journal- 
ism, "  going  back  to  the  days  of  Thomas  Davis— the  days  of  the 
man  who,  by  the  beautiful  enthusiasm  of  his  own  soul,  inspired  a 
people  who,  through  long  suffering  and  shameful  wrong  at  the 
hand  of  overwhelming  power,  had  sunk  into  what  seemed  before 
his  day  to  be  a  hopeless  lethargy — the  man  who  by  the  creative 
energy  of  his  genius  cast  ideas  and  hopes  of  the  Irish  people  into- 
such  shapes  of  beauty  that  they  thrill  the  hearts  of  men  even  now, 
though  for  two  score  years  the  grass  has  been  growing  on  the 
grave  of  Thomas  Davis.  And  speaking  here  to-night  in  no  narrow 
or  fierce  political  spirit,  I  would  mention  the  name  of  Charles. 
Gavan  Duffy  as  the  name  of  a  man  who  brought  to  the  service  of 


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John  MitcheTs  Daughter.  137 

the  Irish  cause  a  logical  power  that  has  been  unsurpassed  since  hi* 
day,  and  who  expounded  the  ideas  and  hopes  of  the  Irish  people, 
from  year  to  year  in  the  columns  of  the  Nation,  with  an  eloquence 
which  even  now,  when  their  immediate  political  use  is  past,  com- 
mends them  as  models  and  examples  to  the  thoughtful  literary 
student.  Can  I,  in  speaking  of  Irish  editors,  pass  by  the  name  of 
John  Mitchel  P  Can  I  pass  by  him  who  shares  with  John  Henry 
Newman,  the  great  Cardinal,  the  fame  of  having  written  the 
strongest,  the  simplest,  the  most  fascinating  English  pronounced 
in  our  generation  P  Can  I  pass  by  the  name  of  the  man  whose- 
sentences  ring  out  like  the  blows  of  a  hammer  on  the  anvil,  by  the- 
name  of  the  man  who  gave  to  the  feelings  of  the  Irish  race  a 
passion  which  reverberates  long  years  after  he  has  been  laid  in  his 
grave  P  The  utterance  of  Irish  passion  by  the  tongue  of  John 
Mitchel  was  like  the  cries  of  fighting  men  in  the  thick  of  battle.0 

This  is  enough  for  the  present  about  Henrietta  MitcheFs 
father.  The  French  friend  and  biographer  of  the  Irish  girl, 
Madame  Zulime  Bramet,  says  that  Henrietta  told  her  that  she 
remembered  being  brought  by  her  mother  to  see  her  father  when 
in  prison  and  under  sentence  of  death.  This  was  in  her  sixth 
year,  and  to  her  childish  mind  and  to  the  beautiful  young  wife's 
heart  fourteen  years'  penal  servitude  beyond  the  seas  was  the  same 
as  death ;  but,  as  a  fact,  a  death-sentence  was  never  passed  upon 
Mitchel,  as  it  was  upon  Meagher  and  later  viotims  of  the  '4& 
movement.  After  the  convict  had  been  sent  to  Bermuda  and  then 
to  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope,  and  finally  to  Tasmania,  finding  he  had 
some  sort  of  fixity  of  tenure  in  his  compulsory  exile,  he  sought  to 
turn  exile  into  home  by  sending  for  his  brave  little  wife  and  his 
five  young  children.  In  his  journal,  on  the  21st  of  June,  1851, 
we  find  this  entry:  "To-morrow  I  commence  my  research  for 
house  and  farm  wherein  to  set  up  my  ticket-of -leave  penates."  The 
entry  of  the  previous  day  is  still  briefer:  "  To-day  I  met  my  wife 
and  family  once  more.  These  things  cannot  be  described."  Our 
little  heroine,  Henrietta,  was  nine  years  old  when  she  made  that 
first  of  many  long  voyages.  Isabella,  who  was,  like  her,  to  become 
a  Catholic,  was  born  before  they  left  Tasmania.  And  now  we  shall 
go  on  with  the  daughter's  story  after  giving  one  sample  of  the 
father's  diary,  belonging  to  an  earlier  date  than  we  have  reached* 
for  the  13th  of  September  spoken  of  in  this  extract  was  in  1848, 
three  months  after  his  conviction  : — 

"  The  glorious  bright  weather  tempts  me  to  spend  much  time 
on  the  pier,  where  I  have  been  sitting  for  hours,  with  the  calm 


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138  John  M&heTs  Daughter. 

limpid  water  scarce  rippling  at  my  feet  Towards  the  north-east, 
and  in  front  of  me  where  I  sit,  stretches  away  beyond  the  rim  of 
the  world  that  immeasurable  boundless  blue;  and  by  intense 
gazing  I  can  behold,  in  vision,  the  misty  peaks  of  a  far-off  land 
— yea,  round  the  gibbous  shoulder  of  the  great  oblate  spheroid, 
my  wistful  eyes  can  see,  looming,  floating  in  the  sapphire  empyrean, 
that  green  Hy  Brasil  of  my  dreams  and  memories — '  with  every 
haunted  mountain  and  streamy  vale  below.'  Near  me,  to  be  sure, 
on  one  side  lies  scattered  an  archipelago  of  sand  and  lime-rocks, 
whitening  and  splitting  like  dry  bones  under  the  tyrannous  sun, 
with  their  thirsty  brushwood  of  black  fir-trees ;  and  still  closer 
behind  me,  are  the  horrible,  swarming  hulks,  stewing,  seething 
cauldrons  of  vice  and  misery.  But  often  while  I  sit  by  the  sea, 
facing  that  north-eastern  art,  my  eyes,  and  ears,  and  heart  are  all 
far,  far.  This  thirteenth  of  September  is  a  clear,  calm,  autumnal 
day  in  Ireland,  and  in  green  glens  there,  and  on  many  a  mountain- 
side, beech-leaves  begin  to  redden,  and  the  heather-bell  has  grown 
brown  and  sere :  the  corn-fields  are  nearly  all  stripped  bare  by 
this  time;  the  flush  of  summer  grows  pale,  the  notes  of  the 
singing-birds  have  lost  that  joyous  thrilling  abandon  inspired  by 
June  days,  when  every  little  singer  in  his  drunken  rapture  will 
gush  forth  his  very  soul  in  melody,  but  he  will  utter  the  unutter- 
able joy.  And  the  rivers,  as  they  ^go  brawling  over  their  pebbly 
beds,  some  crystal  bright,  some  tinted  with  sparkling  brown  from 
the  high  moors — '  the  hue  of  the  Cairngorm  pebble ' — all  have  got 
their  autumnal  voice  and  chide  the  echoes  with  a  hoarser  murmur, 
complaining  (he  that  hath  ears  to  hear  let  him  hear)  how  that 
summer  is  dying,  and  the  time  of  the  singing  birds  is  over  and 
gone.  On  such  an  autumn  day  to  the  inner  ear  is  ever  audible  a 
kind  of  low  and  pensive,  but  not  doleful  sighing,  the  first  whispered 
8usurrus  of  those  moaning,  wailing  October  winds,  wherewith 
Winter  preludes  the  pealing  anthem  of  his  storms.  Well  known 
to  me,  by  day  and  by  night,  are  the  voices  of  Ireland's  winds  and 
waters,  the  faces  of  her  ancient  mountains.  I  see  it,  I  hear  it  all 
— for  by  the  wondrous  power  of  imagination,  informed  by  strong 
love,  I  do  indeed  live  more  truly  in  Ireland  than  on  these 
unblessed  rocks. 

"  But  what  avails  it  P  Do  not  my  eyes  strain  over  the  sea  in 
vain  P  my  soul  yearn  in  vain  P  Has  not  the  Queen  of  England 
banished  me  from  the  land  where  my  mother  bore  me,  where  my 
father's  bones  are  laid  P  " 

If  the  writer  of  this  "  Jail  Journal "  had  never  been  in  gaol 


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John  Mit chefs  Daughter.  139 

— to  give  also  the  other  less  phonetic  spelling  of  the  word,  which 
would  have  spoiled  the  title  of  the  book  so  much — if  Mitchel  had 
lived  and  died  a  prosperous  attorney  in  Banbridge  or  Newry,  his 
eldest  and  his  youngest  daughter  would  not  have  come  under  the 
influences  of  which  God  made  use  to  draw  them  into  the  Catholic 
Church.  Mitchel's  own  religious  sentiments  were  far  (I  fear  too 
far)  removed  from  bigotry.  I  have  heard  on  excellent  authority 
that  he  once  said  that,  if  he  could  pray,  he  would  be  a  Catholic ; 
but  he  had  never  learned  really  to  pray.  Perhaps  it  was  the 
generosity  of  his  nature  and  his  undying  hatred  to  everything 
English  that  made  him  argue  earnestly  and  eloquently  in  defence 
of  the  Pope  in  many  public  writings,  just  as  at  the  outset  of  his 
career  he  was  the  champion  of  the  Catholics  round  Banbridge, 
especially  when  poor,  and,  ever  after,  the  lifelong  friend  of  their 
pastor,  Father  Bernard  Mooney,  afterwards  P.P.  of  Rostrevor. 
His  friendship  for  Father  John  Kenyon  is  more  readily  under- 
stood, for  they  were  kindred  spirits ;  but  Father  Mooney,  an 
excellent,  laborious,  self-sacrificing  priest,  was  decidedly  unliterary, 
unromantic,  and  seemingly  uncongenial. 

These  Catholic  sympathies,  or  at  least  this  freedom  from  Pro- 
testant prejudice,  may  serve  to  explain  how  the  political  exile, 
when  he  settled  down  in  Paris,  entrusted  the  education  of  his 
daughter  to  the  Nuns  of  the  Sacr£  Cobut,  although  he  was  already 
aware  of  her  strong  impulse  towards  Catholicity.  This  will  best 
be  told  in  his  own  words.  He  continued  his  "  Journal,"  after  it 
had  ceased  to  be  a  jail  journal,  and  published  portions  of  the  con- 
tinuation in  his  newspapers  in  the  United  States,  which  must  con- 
tain very  many  things  that  it  would  be  desirable  to  rescue  from 
oblivion.  The  following  was  published  in  the  Irish  Citizen  on 
March  19,  1872,  and  refers  to  a  period  ten  years  earlier : — 

"  Our  eldest  daughter,  Henrietta,  has  this  winter  become  a 
Catholic.  It  is  no  new  whim  on  her  part,  for  long  since,  while  we 
were  living  at  Washington,  she  had  formed  the  same  wish  very 
strongly,  influenced  partly,  as  I  suppose,  by  her  intimacy  with 
two  young  ladies  of  a  Maryland  Catholic  family,  who  were  our 
next-door  neighbours.  I  know,  also,  that  she  was  greatly  influenced 
by  her  very  strong  Irish  feeling,  and  had  a  kind  of  sentiment  that 
one  cannot  be  thoroughly  Irish  without  being  Catholic.  For  that 
time,  however,  we  had  objected  to  any  decided  and  public  step 
being  taken  in  this  direction.  She  was  too  young  to  have  duly 
studied  the  question  and  to  know  her  own  mind  thoroughly,  but  I 
said  that  if,  after  two  or  three  years,  she  should  entertain  the  same 


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140  John  MitcheV 8  Daughter. 

wish,  I  would  not  utter  one  word  to  dissuade  her.  Since  our 
arrival  in  France  she  had  been  placed  in  school  in  the  convent  of 
the  Sacr£  Cosur,  and  has  become  greatly  attached  to  one  of  the 

good  ladies  of  that  house,  Madame  D ,  a  very  excellent  and 

accomplished  woman.  This  condition  of  things  was  not  calculated 
to  abate  her  Catholic  zeal,  and,  in  short,  the  time  came  when  my 
dear  daughter  declared  that  she  must  be  a  Catholic — could  not  livfr 
without  being  a  Catholic.  I  did  not  think  her  parents  had  the 
right — and,  indeed,  they  had  not  the  disposition^-to  cross  her  wish 
any  further.  So  on  a  certain  day  she  and  another  young  lady  were 
to  be  baptised  in  the  chapel  of  the  convent.  The  Archbishop  of 
Paris,  Cardinal  Morlot,  heard  of  it  and  wrote  to  the  Reverend 
Mother  of  the  house  to  the  effect  that,  as  several  conversions  of 
Protestant  pupils  which  had  lately  taken  place  in  the  convents 
had  given  rise  to  imputations  of  undue  influence  and  conversion 
by  surprise,  as  it  were,  and  had  afterwards  given  umbrage  to  the 
relatives,  he  should  require  that,  before  any  further  steps  were 
taken,    I    should    be  asked  for  a  written  consent.      Madame 

D showed  me  the  letter,  and  I  instantly  wrote  the  required 

consent.  For  this  acquiescence  I  was  most  earnestly  blamed  by 
some  of  my  connections  in  the  north  of  Ireland,  who  wrote  to  me, 
urging  that  I  ought  to  exert  my  authority  to  stop  any  such  apos- 
tasy. What  would  they  have  me  to  do  P  Shut  up  my  daughter 
in  her  ioom  and  give  her  the  Westminster  confession  to  read  P 
How  should  I  like  this  usage  myself  P  Here  was  a  girl  of  nine- 
teen, full  of  intelligence  and  spirit,  gentle  and  affectionate,  who 
had  never  given  to  her  father  and  mother  one  moment's  uneasiness 
on  her  account,  deliberately  declaring  that  she  desired  to  embrace 
the  ancient  faith  of  her  forefathers.  In  short,  I  believe  that  I 
acted  right.  For  the  short  remainder  of  her  days  she  remained  a 
devout  Catholic,  and  so  died.  She  lies  buried  in  the  cemetery  of 
Mont  Parnasse." 

I  am  not  sure  which  of  the  two  is  more  to  be  trusted  on  this 
point ;  but  Mitchol  in  the  foregoing  account  differs  a  good  deal 
from  Henrietta's  friend,  Zulime  Bramet.  After  speaking  of  her 
American  friend,  "  Miss  Emma,"  whom  she  made  a  better  Catho- 
lic while  still  a  Protestant  herself,  and  after  attributing  her  Catho- 
lic tendencies  partly  to  the  reading  of  Cardinal  Wiseman's 
"Fabiola,"  the  biographer  pays  a  compliment  which  must 
not  be  passed  over.  "Henriette  avait  quinze  ans,  et  £tait, 
£  cette  6poque,  dans  toute  la  fleur  de  cette  beauts  si  remar- 
qnable  chez  lee  Irlandaises."     Mr.  Webb  also  speaks  of  her 


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John  MitcheV  a  Daughter*         u\  ■  141 

mother's  "  extraordinary  beauty."  Madame  Bramet  allows  us  to 
understand  that  Henrietta  became  a  boarder  with  the  Religieuses 
of  the  Sacr£  Coeur  not  before  but  after  her  conversion.  After 
receiving  long  instruction  from  P6re  de  Ponlevoy,  S. J.,  which  were 
interrupted  by  an  illness  and  a  visit  to  her  Protestant  relations  in 
Ireland,  she  was  received  into  the  Catholic  Church  and  baptised  in 
the  Convent  chapel  on  the  last  day  of  1861,  making  her  First  Com- 
munion on  that  day  also,  and  her  second  on  New  Year's  Day,  1862. 
When  the  Civil  War  in  America  made  John  Mitchel  join  his 
sons  in  fighting  for  the  Southern  States,  Henrietta,  instead  of 
going  with  the  others  to  her  Irish  friends,  obtained  leave  to  stay 
in  the  convent  and  to  keep  her  youngest  sister,  the  little  Tasmanian 
Isabella,  with  the  purpose  of  preparing  her  to  become  a  Catholic 
like  herself.  The  parents  found  that  this  was  the  fixed  resolve  of 
their  youngest  child ;  and  they  gave  their  consent. 

One  of  Henrietta's  recreations  was  the  making  of  verses.  Her 
father's  prose  often  shows  that  he  could  have  been  a  poet  if  he 
liked.  But,  as  a  fact,  the  only  bit  of  rhyme  that  we  have  ever 
heard  of  from  Mitchel' s  pen  was  merely  extemporised  in  one  of 
those  ingenious  drawingroom  games  which  we  fear  have  gone 
utterly  out  of  fashion.  This  little  relic  would  be  much  more 
interesting  if  we  could  name  the  distinguished  man  whose  mar- 
vellous memory  has  preserved  it  so  long — like  that  song  which 
Longfellow  sang  into  the  air  and  which  long  afterwards  he  found 
in  the  heart  of  a  friend.  In  the  game  which  occupied  several 
bright  intellects  on  a  certain  evening  forty  years  ago,  in  a  house 
in  our  Donnybrook  suburb,  each  person  in  turn  was  required  to 
introduce  a  certain  word  in  giving  an  answer  to  a  question  proposed 
to  him.  The  question  proposed  to  Mitchel  was:  "  Why  wasnotFather 
Kenyon  at  the  meeting  to-day  P  "—-and  the  word  to  be  brought  into 
his  answer  was  colure,  an  astronomical  term  for  which  the  reader  is 
referred  to  his  dictionary,  and  which  Mitchel  thus  introduced  with 
•consummate  art : 

"  The  motions  of  this  very  reverend  priest 
Defy  the  skill  of  human  calculator ; 
From  north  to  south  he  Bhoots,  from  west  to  oast. 

From  pole  to  pole,  from  colure  to  equator ; 
And,  when  you  deem  you  firmly  have  your  eyes  on 
This  slippery  priest,  he's  off  beyond  the  horizon." 

As  Mitchel  so  rarely  sacrificed  to  the  muses,  the  muses  in  turn 
paid  him  few  tributes.  I  remember  nothing  but  these  lines  by 
"Lia  Fail,"  dated  March  20,  1876,  the.  first  anniversary  of 
Mitchel's  death  : 


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142     ~  John  MitcheT  slaughter. 

u  Then  sleep,  John  Mitchel,  in  your  Irish  grave ; 

Tour  name  will  live  amid  the  good  and  true — 
For  when  did  earth  behold  a  heart  more  brave  ? 

And  when  had  chief  a  nobler  cause  than  you*  P 

Your  rivals  in  earth's  story  are  but  few. 
Among  the  heroes  Erin  calls  her  own — 

And  they  are  many,  aye  and  mighty  too— 
Your  equals,  leader  high,  are  these  alone  : 
O'Neill,  O'Donnell  Hoe,  Fitzgerald,  Emmet,  Tone." 

The  last  of  these  Irishmen  to  whom  Mitchel  is  here  compared 
is  hard  to  recognise  at  page  48  of  the  French  brochure  before  us, 
where  two  separate  names,  Wolfe  and  Rowe,  are  twice  repeated, 
Rowe  being  a  misprint  for  Tone.  Other  mistakes  have  evidently 
crept  in  through  Madame  Bramet's  ignorance  of  English.  These  are 
the  reflections  of  an  Irish  maiden  in  the  backwoods  of  America: — 

Twas  a  holy  sabbath  even,  in  the  autumn  of  the  year; 
On  a  fallen  pine-tree  sitting,  in  the  backwoods  dark  and  drear, 
Where  no  church  steeple  met  the  eye,  or  bells  swung  in  the  air, 
Sat  a  little  Irish  maiden  dreaming  sad  and  lonely  there. 

The  birdswere  singing  vespers  t'o  the  music  of  the  rills, 

The  wind  sang  its  wild  anthems  as  it  swept  down  pine-clothed  hills ; 

But  the  grand  old  choir  of  nature  fell  unheeded  on  the  ear 

Of  the  Irish  maiden  dreaming  in  those  backwoods  dark  and  drear. 

No  song  of  bird  or  wind  she  heard,  no  pine-hills  near  were  seen, 

Her  thoughts  were  far,  ah !  far  away  in  the  land  of  the  shamrock  green ; 

'Twas  of  her  distant  native  land,  of  her  home  so  dear  and  fair, 

That  this  Irish  girl  was  thinking  as  she  sat  dreaming  there. 

She  thought  of  its  ruined  shrines,  of  its  priesthood  hunted  down. 
Of  those  who  for  faith  and  country  were  lying  cold  and  lone : 
She  thought  of  many  a  martyr  in  an  unhonoured  grave — 
Of  Owen  Roe  and  Aodh  O'Neill  the  bravest  of  the  brave. 

Of  the  olden  time  when  Erin  held  her  head  among  the  free, 
When  no  land  could  boast  of  prouder  or  nobler  sons  than  she, 
That  little  Irish  maiden  sat  fondly  dreaming  there 
With  nought  to  break  the  stillness  of  the  Sabbath  evening  air. 

She  thought  of  Tone  and  Emmet  and  of  the  patriot  few 
Who,  even  at  the  present  hour,  with  hearts  as  warm  and  true, 
In  exile  on  a  foreign  shore  their  lives  were  doomed  to  roam 
In  vain  and  weary  longings  for  their  own  loved  native  home. 


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John  MitcheFs  Daughter.  149 

She  slipped  from  off  the  fallen  tree,  and,  kneeling  on  the  sod, 

She  breathed  an  earnest  prayer  for  them,  that  Irish  maid,  to  God. 

In  heartf ul  supplication  she  lifted  high  her  hand — 

"  Qod  help,"  she  said,  "  God  help  thee  now,  my  own  dear  native  land.* 

Above  the  anthems  of  the  wind  and  the  vespers  of  the  bird, 
Above  the  music  of  the  rills,  oh  1  surely  will  be  heard 
By  God  on  high  the  murmured  words,  the  earnest  heartf  ul  prayer 
Of  that  little  Irish  maiden  who  kneeleth  lonely  there. 

Did  poor  Mitchel  ever  see  his  daughter's  verses  P  Care  will  be 
taken  that  at  least  in  their  newest  •form  they  may  reach  her 
mother.  The  only  other  poem  given  by  Madame  Bramet  is  still 
more  likely,  on  account  of  its  theme,  never  to  have  come  under  the 
eyes  of  her  parents.  Henrietta  cherished  a  most  tender  devotion 
to  the  Blessed  Sacrament  of  the  altar.  Many  pages  of  the  French 
life  are  filled  with  fervent  meditations  on  the  Holy  Eucharist  found 
among  her  papers,  written  in  French  which  was  almost  more  fami- 
liar to  her  now  than  English.  To  a  Protestant  friend,  describing  the 
feast  of  the  Sacred  Heart,  1862,  she  writes:  "Almost  all  the 
pupils  received  Holy  Communion,  and  this  was  the  real  feast  of 
our  hearts.  But  you  who  do  not  believe  in  the  Real  Presence 
cannot  understand  me.  Ah !  my  dear  friend,  I  can  only  pray  for 
you,  that  you  may  one  day  have  the  consolation  of  tasting  the 
inconceivable  happiness  of  the  Holy  Communion  which  surpasses 
in  beauty  and  grandeur  all  that  is  most  beautiful  and  delightful 
on  earth."     One  day  (September  5th,   1862)  she  brought  to  her 

favourite  nun,  Madame  Adele  D ,   the  following  "Lines 

composed  on  seeing  a  Nun  returning  from  Communion." 

Keturning  from  the  table  of  the  Lord, 

Her  heart,  I  knew,  was  full  of  secret  prayer ; 
For  He  the  mighty  and  eternal  Word, 

Incarnate  once  again,  reposed  there. 
A  sense  of  awe,  of  reverential  fear, 

As  then  she  passed  me  by,  stole  o'er  my  spirit ; 
I  sought  to  touch  her  robe,  her  joy  to  share. 

For  in  that  act  I  felt  there  might  be  merit. 

So  intimate  the  union  that  existed 

Between  Him  the  Almighty  God  of  heaven 
And  her  the  loving  soul  that  ne'er  resisted 

The  grace  divine  or  inspiration  given ; 
Most  sacred  union  and  communion  mystic, 

Fountain  of  every  bright  and  holy  vision, 
0  thou  most  blessed  banquet  eucharistic, 

Sweet  glimpses  given  of  the  Land  Elysian ! 


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144  John  Mitchef  s  Daughter. 

Yes,  thou  hast  fed  her  soul  with  viands  rarest, 

Whilst,  sad  and  famished,  here  I  sit  and  moan. 
Ah !  she  is  happy  with  her  Saviour  dearest, 

Whilst  I  am  weeping  all  alone,  alone. 
But  she — full  well  I  know  her  touching  story — 

The  proudest  daughter  of  the  proudest  nation, 
She  with  proud  scorn  has  spurned  all  human  glory 

To  seize  the  cross,  the  cross  of  sure  salvation. 

So  is  she  consecrated  to  the  Lord, 

To  God's  own  service  all  her  life  is  vowed ; 
He  calls  her  now  unto  His  festive  board 

And  He  of  her  pure  soul  becomes  the  food. 
But  I  so  base,  so  full  of  earth's  pollution, 

I  love  but  what  is  earthly,  passing  by ; 
Where  is  my  courage  P  where  my  resolution  P 

Where  is  my  love  or  generous  impulse  high  P 

0  God,  my  God,  when  with  thy  dear  beloved, 

When  in  the  midst  of  Thy  elect  I  pray, 
Have  mercy  on  the  sinner  sore  reproved, 

Take  pity  on  Thy  child  that  goes  astray. 
And  you  who  know  the  grief  'twould  be  to  lose  Him, 

In  prayers  for  me  your  charity  will  show, 
That  one  day  He  may  take  me  to  His  bosom 

And  on  my  brow  the  kiss  of  peace  bestow. 

On  the  3rd  of  December,  1862,  Feast  of  St.  Francis  Xavier, 
Isabella  Mitchel,  after  careful  instruction  and  full  of  faith,  was 
baptised,  and  Henrietta  was  her  godmother.  About  this  time  the 
elder  sister  expressed  some  idea  of  joining  the  community  who 
loved  her  so  much ;  but  the  religieuses  did  not  think  she  had  a 
vocation  and  they  advised  her  not  to  cause  this  pain  to  her 
parents.  She  continued  to  pursue  with  great  ardour  her  studies 
which  had  necessarily  been  neglected  during  the  wanderings  of 
her  earlier  years.  Many  letters  and  essays  printed  in  the  French 
sketch  show  her  great  intelligence,  her  ardent  faith,  and  her  almost 
seraphio  charity ;  but  "  le  secret  d'ennuyer  est  celui  de  tout  dire," 
and  we  have  space  for  no  more  than  two  other  relics  of  this 
exquisite  soul.  The  only  remaining  scrap  of  English  in  the 
volume  is  her  note  of  her  interview  on  St.  Patrick's  Day,  1863, 
with  Madame  Barat,  the  venerable  Foundress  of  the  Order  of  the 
Sacred  Heart : 

"  St.  Patrick's  Day  passed  over  tranquilly.  We  did  not  forget  to  pay  that 
tribute  which  we  owed  to  the  dear  old  land  and  to  the  cherished  memory  of  her 
patron  saint.  Although  on  a  foreign  strand,  a  little  sprig  of  Irish  shamrock 
decorated  our  dress ;  it  was  grown  on  Irish  ground,  and,  when  culled  to  be  sent 


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John  MitcheFs  Daughter.  145 

across  the  water,  it  was  covered  with  crystal  drops  of  IrUh  rain.  All  this  L 
•can  vouch  for  on  the  faith  of  the  friend  who  sent  it,  a  stout-hearted  patriot,  by 
the  way,  who  sent  the  precious  shamrock  enveloped  in  Moore's  song,  and  who 
would  as  soon  go  without  breakfast  every  day  of  the  year,  as  without 
the  shamrock  on  St.  Patrick's  Day.  But,  as  I  was  saying,  the  little  sprig  of 
ehamrock  decorated  our  dress  and  drew  forth  more  than  one  exclamation  and  look 
of  surprise  from  these  good-hearted  French  girls  unaccustomed  to  see  what 
they  took  for  clover-leaves  occupying  such  an  honourable  place  of  distinction. 

"  Of  the  many  festivals  which  I  have  passed  none  will  be  for  ever  so  deeply 
engraved  on  my  memory  as  this  one,  on  account  of  my  interview  with  Madame 
Barat,  the  foundress  and  beloved  mother  of  the  entire  Order.  She  looked  up  as 
I  entered  the  room  and  smiled  kindly  as  I  knelt  to  kiss  the  hand  she  held  out  to 
me.  Never  shall  I  forget  the  impression  produced  upon  me  when  I  found  myself 
in  the  presence  of  a  living  saint.  She  was  sitting  at  a  table  writing.  This 
woman  of  eighty-four  years,  whose  body  seems  literally  to  be  mouldering  away 
with  age,  but  whose  soul  retains  ail  its  vigour  and  its  superior  faculties,  seems 
but  to  await  the  opportunity  of  breaking  forth  from  its  earthly  prison.  I  would 
have  remained  willingly  in  contemplation  of  the  kind  face  before  me,  but  she 
broke  the  silence  by  wishing  me  in  the  cordial  French  manner  a  happy  feast ; 
she  then  tried  to  show  me  the  manner  in  which  St.  Patrick  had  explained  the 
mystery  of  the  bles3ed  Trinity  by  means  of  the  shamrock.  It  seemed  strange 
to  me  to  see  a  foreigner  so  conversant  with  this  point  of  our  history  which, 
mingled  with  our  national  legends,  had  long  been  so  familiar  to  me,  but  which 
beyond  the  ocean-bound  land  is  but  little  known  by  any,  except  the  sons  of  her 
own  green  hills.  I  had  forgotten  however  that  a  great  part  of  our  annals 
belongs  to  another  history,  the  history  of  that  country  of  which  she  before  me 
was  the  devoted  daughter,  the  glorious  country  of  the  true  faith.  Yes,  the 
Church  counts  in  her  foremost  ranks  many  Irish  apostles,  saints,  and  surely,  ah ! 
surely,  many  many  martyrs.  But  she  before  me  has  often  come  in  closer  and 
personal  contact  with  the  children  of  Erin.  Many  an  Irish  daughter  has  been 
-confided  to  her  arms  by  St.  Patrick :  such  is  the  communion  of  saints !  These 
were  my  thoughts  naturally  awakened  in  my  mind  by  the  topics  of  our  conver- 
sation. She  spoke  to  me  of  Ireland,  of  my  brave  true  countrymen,  their  faith, 
their  courage,  until  the  tears  overflowed  my  eyes  and  coursed  their  way  down 
my  cheek,  thus  to  see  them  so  well  appreciated  by  a  stranger.  But  she  spoke 
with  all  the  enthusiasm  of  the  truest,  warmest  patriotism,  so  closely  are  allied 
those  two  noblest  sentiments  of  which  the  heart  of  man  is  capable ;  the  love  of 
God  and  the  love  of  country,  and  which  both  awake  alike  the  noblest  and  most 
generous  devotedness.  So  I  thought  and  so  I  felt.  Ireland,  dear  Ireland,  be  my 
witness.  As  I  left  the  room  of  Madame  Barat,  did  I  love  thee  less,  if  I  loved 
my  God  the  more  ?  Did  I  feel  less  proud  of  thy  glorious  struggles,  if  I  had 
learned  to  appreciate  more  deeply  the  devoted  sacrifices  which  the  cross  inspires  P 
Above  all,  did  I  forsake  thee  or  thy  cause,  if  I  enrolled  myself  for  ever  beneath 
the  banner  of  my  Saviour  and  in  vowing  myself  to  live  and  die  in  the  service  of 
that  greatest  of  chieftains,  of  patriots,  of  martyrs,  who  had  shed  his  blood  for 
me  ?  0  Ireland  1  how  happy  am  I  that  the  festival  should  be  at  once  religious 
and  national,  and  that  thy  St.  Patrick's  Day  should  have  the  double  charm  of 
recalling  to  me  the  sweet  remembrance  of  our  duty  towards  our  country  and 
our  God!" 

Vol.  xiy.  No.  153.  12 


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140  John  Mitchell  Daughter. 

The  second  last  of  these  sentences  seems  to  imply  that  on  this 
occasion  Miss  Mitchel  offered  herself  to  the  religions  state. 
Towards  the  beginning  of  the  memorandum  she  says  that  the 
memory  of  that  particular  feast  would  remain  for  ever  indelibly 
engraven  on  her  memory.  In  reality  the  impression  was  not  to  be- 
allowed  time  to  fade  out.  The  ardent  maiden  had  some  presenti- 
ment of  an  early  death,  but  no  doubt  she  imagined  she  had  years 
before  her  on  earth  instead  of  one  bare  month.  The  following 
letter  to  her  spiritual  director,  Father  Armand  de  Ponlevoy,  the 
biographer  of  Father  Ravignan,  was  her  last : 

"  There  is  one  thing,  dear  Father,  which  perhaps  I  ought  not  to  hide  from 
yon,  but  I  have  always  been  too  much  ashamed  of  it  to  speak  to  you  about  it, 
so  I  take  the  expedient  of  writing  to  you.  It  is  that  from  time  to  time  I  find 
myself  in  such  a  transport  of  love  for  God  that  I  am  almost  beside  myself. 
Yesterday  I  felt  it  very  vividly.  You  can  conceive  nothing  stronger  than  the 
divine  love  which  animates  me  in  these  moments.  Our  Lord  seems  to  be  quite- 
near  me*  I  am  prostrate  at  His  feet,  I  kiss  them,  I  wash  them  with  my  tears,. 
I  would  wish  to  die  there.  My  soul  appears  to  have  strength  enough  to  carry  my 
body  away  and  flee  to  heaven.  I  would  wish  to  live  only  for  Jesus,  to  live  only 
for  Jesus.  I  say  to  myself  at  these  moments :  what  matter  where  I  live  or 
with  what  persons,  whether  with  saints  or  with  demons?  My  vocation  is 
between  God  and  me,  and  no  object  without  can  determine  it  or  change  it.  I 
wish  only  to  suffer  and  to  be  the  beloved  of  Jesus :  in  this  I  find  an  unutterable 
delight.  This  is  the  reason  why  I  always  fear  that  these  raptures  may  come 
rather  from  nature  than  from  grace  and  be  merely  an  illusion :  I  am  so  ardent 
by  nature,  and  I  often  find  myself  tired  and  almost  sick  afterwards.  Also  I 
don't  see  that  these  spiritual  consolations  have  the  effect  which  they  ought  to 
have  on  my  character ;  they  do  not  help  me  to  acquire  solid  virtues.  I  have 
felt  the  need  of  telling  you  that  I  want  to  rise  above  all  these  miseries.  I  want 
to  be  a  saint.  Am  I  too  ambitious  P  I  want  to  be  a  saint,  and  I  must  be  one. 
I  am  not  afraid  like  a  little  Breton  girl  who  told  me  the  other  day  that  she  was 
afraid  to  become  a  saint  because  she  would  not  be  happy :  for  the  saints  con- 
sider themselves  very  bad  people.  I  answered  her  that  it  was  necessary  to  < 
have  this  feeling  in  order  to  prevent  pride,  but  that  it  could  not  prevent  the  joy 
of  feeling  oneself  to  be  a  child  of  predilection,  the  well-beloved  of  God ;  the 
saints  are  afflicted  at  their  faults  because  they  have  received  more  favours- 
than  others,  and  this  very  affliction  must  be  itself  full  of  delights.  O  my  dear 
Father,  I  must  be  a  saint ;  will  you  make  me  a  saint  P 

Oh !  il  me  faut  Ure  une  sainte,  mon  phre ;  faitee  de  moi  une 
eainte,  wukz  vow  ?  This  is  the  fervent  cry  of  John  Mitchel' s 
daughter  in  the  last  month  of  her  short  and  innocent  life.  During 
the  last  weeks  of  Lent  she  spent  long  hours  before  the  Blessed 
Sacrament.  One  day  she  did  not  appear  at  dinner,  and  the 
refectorian,  going  in  search  of  her,  found  her  kneeling  before  the 
tabernacle  in  the  same  position  in  which  she  had  observed  her 


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John  MUeheP*  Daughter.  147 

boors  before.  On  Thursday  in  Easter  week  she  fainted,  and,  on 
recovering  consciousness,  felt  a  violent  headache  which  never  left 
her.  After  some  alternations  the  disease  developed  into  brain  fever ; 
but,  while  she  still  retained  the  use  of  her  faculties,  she  received 
all  the  sacraments  of  the  dying,  on  the  Thursday  after  Low 
Sunday,  and  then  sank  into  an  unconscious  state  from  which  she 
never  recovered,  passing  peacefully  away  at  two  o'clock  on  Satur- 
day morning,  April  18th,  1863. 

She  had  sorrows  and  partings  enough,  but  she  was  spared  the 
grief  of  hearing,  while  in  this  vale  of  tears,  of  the  death  of  her 
brothers,  John  and  William,  who  were  killed  fighting  in  the  Con- 
federate army,  one  at  Gettysburg,  the  other  at  Fort  Sumter. 

Writing  to  Mrs.  A.  M.  Sullivan  from  New  York  on  the  23rd 
of  April,  1868,  when  Henrietta's  fifth  anniversary  had  just 
passed  by,  John  Mitchel  thus  concludes  a  letter  much  more 
amiable  than  the  ones  he  addressed  to  Lord  Clarendon  twenty 
years  before : — 

"We  are  now  living  at  Fordham,  a  village  about  eight  miles 
from  New  York,  in  a  very  pretty  country,  which  is  just  putting 
on  its  spring  robes,  and  is  going  to  be  an  Elysium  all  summer. 
But  we  have  passed  through  the  most  savage  winter  ever 
experienced  here — and  have  survived  it.  We  have,  living  all 
together  in  one  house  at  Fordham,  my  son  James  and  his  Virginia 
wife,  my  daughter  Minny  and  her  Virginia  husband,  my  own  wife 
and  youngest  daughter  Isabella — not  forgetting  myself.  All  join 
in  sending  greetings  to  you,  and  some  of  them  can  do  this  feelingly, 
having  gone  through  something  analagous,  '  only  more  so.' " 

Of  this  family  group  two  more  have  been  removed  by  death — 
Mitchel  ^himself  in  1875,  Isabella,  only  two  or  three  years  ago. 
She  must  have  been  less  than  ten  years  old  when  her  godmother 
died ;  but  she  remained  true  to  the  promises  made  by  her  and  for 
her  in  baptism.  In  1875  she  accompanied  her  father  to  Ireland, 
and  prayed  beside  his  deathbed.  Her  grace  and  singular  beauty, 
we  are  told,  charmed  all  who  came  in  contact  with  her.  On  her 
return  to  America  she  married  Dr.  Sloane,  a  nephew  of  the  famous 
Irish  leader  of  the  American  bar,  Charles  O'Connor.  In  the 
midst  of  a  happy  life  she  was  attacked  by  typhoid  fever  and 
(so  the  newspaper  account  ran)  died  in  her  27th  year,  comforted 
in  her  last  moments  by  the  sacred  rites  of  the  Catholic  Church, 
of  which  she  was  a  devout  member.  Of  John  Mitchel's  family  of 
three  sons  and  three  daughters,  a  son  and  a  daughter  still  survive 
— Captain  James  Mitchel  and  Mary,  wife  of  Colonel  Page  of 

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148  John  Hit  chefs  Daughter. 

Kentucky.  With  Mrs.  Page  lives  her  mother,  the  fragile  and 
gentle  woman  who  seemed  least  fitted  to  cope  with  so  many  hard- 
ships and  dangers,  but  who  has  borne  them  and  braved  them  all 
so  admirably. 

Such,  then,  is  the  link  between  the  memory  of  a  man  whose 
name  was  in  many  mouths,  and  that  of  a  maiden  who  never  before 
was  mentioned  outside  her  own  narrow  circle.  Strange  that 
reputation  and  especially  posthumous  reputation  should  be  such  a 
powerful  motive  among  men !  "  Fame !  fame !  next  grandest 
word  to  God !  "  Yet  what  matters  fame,  when  life  is  over,  unless 
obtained  by  deeds  and  qualities  that  stand  the  test  of  death? 
Would  that  a  visible  response  had  been  given  to  Henrietta's 
prayers  for  her  beloved  father !  I  do  not  know  that  Mitchel  and 
Longfellow  ever  met.  Richmond  and  New  York  were  his  Ameri- 
can homes,  not  Boston.  They  were  dissimilar  in  career  and 
character,  yet  they  had  this  in  common  that  they  both  exhibited 
towards  the  Catholic  Church  a  generous  admiration  which  in  both 
cases  made  many  pray  during  their  lives  that  the  full  gift  of  faith 
might  be  bestowed  upon  them  as  it  was  upon  kijiswomen  of  each 
of  them.  The  reader  has  heard  a  good  deal  now  about  the 
politician's  daughter,  and  he  may  have  heard  before  of  the  con- 
version of  the  poet's  niece.  The  unknown  maiden  or  the  famous 
man — which  of  the  two  is  most  to  be  envied  P  Fame,  after  all, 
seems  a  very  dreary,  ghastly  thing  when  the  light  of  eternity  is 
thrown  back  upon  it.  It  does  one  very  little  good  to  be  talked 
about  during  life  and  still  less  after  death.  Yet  Longfellow 
himself,  when  his  own  heart  was  young,  told  us  what  "  the  heart 
of  the  young  man  said  to  the  psalmist ; "  and  some  such  youthful 
heart  may  be  at  this  moment  drawing  quite  another  moral  than 
that  which  I  am  pointing  to  in  thus  coupling  together  for 
contrast's  sake  Ada  Longfellow  and  the  author  of  "  Evangeline," 
John  Mitchel  and  John  Mitchel's  daughter.* 

*  If  it  had  fallen  under  my  eye  at  the  proper  moment,  I  should  have  joined 
with  Mr.  Sexton's  appreciation  of  Mitchel's  style  the  following  passage  from 
John  Augustus  O'Shea's  "  Reminiscences  of  a  Special  Correspondent."  1  quote 
a  little  more  than  is  needed  for  the  present  purpose. 

*  In  Mitchel  a  great  writer  was  lost.  His  style  was  as  strong  and  clear  as 
that  of  Swift  or  Bolingbroke,  his  logic  forcible,  his  humour  cutting,  his  sarcasm 
merciless,  and  withal  he  could  soar  into  realms  of  imagination  the  most  purely 
poetic,  or  unbend  from  his  accustomed  rigidity  and  indulge  in  passages  of  florid 
description  that  might  turn  many  a  word-painter  by  vocation  green  with  envy. 
His  short  life  of  Clarence  Mangan  is  one  of  the  most  touching   pieces   of 


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O  THOU  WHO  HAST  MADE  ME,  HAVE  MEROY  ON  ME. 

11HEKE  are  times,  bitter  times,  full  of  doubt  and  despair, 
.     When  we  almost  abandon  the  language  of  prayer ; 
When  our  lips  and  our  heart  scarcely  venture  to  frame 
Even  His,  our  dear  Master's  own  merciful  Name; 
When  Mary  our  Mother  seems  deaf  to  our  cry, 
And  angels  and  saints  seem  too  far  and  too  high. 
Ob  I  when  God  in  His  wisdom  such  moments  shall  send, 
Let  one  cry  from  our  hearts  in  His  presence  ascend — 
A  cry  full  of  anguish  yet  trust  let  it  be — 
'•  O  Thou  who  hast  made  me,  have  mercy  on  me !  " 

O  Thou,  who  hast  made  me  I  Thou  only  canst  know 

The  depth  of  my  weakness,  the  weight  of  my  woe ; 

And  I  feel  Thy  tribunal  will  prove  in  the  end 

More  indulgent  than  verdict  of  best  earthly  friend ; 

For,  Workman  divine  and  all  wise  as  Thou  art, 

Thou  hast  made  this  weak  mind  and  this  cowardly  heart, 

Nor  can  folly  of  mine  mix  a  shade  of  surprise 

In  the  grave,  tender  love  of  Thy  pitiful  eyes. 

All  wisdom,  all  power,  all  love  is  in  Thee — 

O  Thou  who  hast  made  me,  have  mercy  on  me  ! 

0  Thou,  who  hast  made  me  I  Thou  hadst  a  design, 

Thou  didst  mark  out  a  special  life-labour  as  mine  ; 

A  work  to  be  finished  ere  setteth  life's  sun — 

A  work,  which,  I  failing,  shall  never  be  done. 

Then  rouse  thee,  my  soul,  for  all  weak  as  thou  art, 

Thou  must  play  in  life's  drama  a  Heaven*  set  part. 

Thy  God,  thy  Creator,  thy  service  doth  claim —  « 

He  calls  thee,  He  needs  thee,  He  nameth  thy  name : 

Dear  Master,  1  hasten,  Thy  handmaiden  see — 

0  Thou  who  hast  made  me,  have  mercy  on  me ! 

biography  with  which  I  am  acquainted,  and  his  portrait  of  a  Creole  beauty  in 
his  "Jail  Journal"  is  perfect — one  to  bring  up  a  vision  of  luscious  loveliness  as 
first  perused,  and  to  dwell  in  the  memory  forever  after.  In  person  Mitchel  was 
tall  and  gaunt ;  his  eyes  were  grey  and  piercing,  his  expression  of  countenance 
self-contained,  if  not  saturnine,  his  features  bony  and  sallow,  with  an  inclination 
to  the  tan-tint ;  high  cheeks  and  determined  chin,  short  and  grizzled  whiskers, 
and  a  thick  moustache  complete  his  photograph,  as  he  was  when  I  met  him.  In 
manner,  he  was  reserved,  as  unlike  the  Celt  as  may  be ;  indeed  he  was  not  a  Celt, 
but  one  of  the  Ulster  stock,  and  in  his  accent  and  his  deliberate  and  distinct 
enunciation,  his  Northern  birth  and  training  were  traceable." 

Lady  Wilde,  writing  to  Mr.  W.  J.  Fitzpatrick,  describes  an  evening  spent 
with  her  in  Merrion-equare  by  John  Mitchel,  "  who  was  fated  so  soon  after  to 
end  his  sad,  brilliant  life  of  genius,  passion,  and  suffering.  His  lovely 
daughter  was  with  him.  She  was  born  when  he  was  a  prisoner,  and  he  called 
her  'Isabel  of  the  Fetters,'  but  I  said  she  was  the  '  Angel  of  the  Captivity/  " 

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150  An  Idyl  of  the  City. 

O  Thou  who  hast  made  me— -so  wretched  in  sooth, 

So  wanting  in  gracefulness,  goodness,  and  truth, 

Yet  in  whom,  O  strange  marvel  I  Thy  wisdom  can  find 

Expression  of  thoughts  of  Thine  Infinite  mind ! 

By  that  something  mysterious  Thou  seest  in  me, 

By  that  which  Thy  grace  may  assist  me  to  be, 

Have  pity,  have  patience  a  little  while  stilly 

Oh !  let  not  our  enemy  frustrate  Thy  Will. 

In  myself  I  despair,  all  my  hopes  are  in  Thee«— 

O  Thou  who  hast  made  me,  have  mercy  on  me ! 

6.  M.  8. 


AN  IDYL  OF  THE  CITY. 

READER,  thou  who  livest  in  thy  country  home  with  the  scent 
of  the  flowers  all  about  thee,  dost  thou  know  what  London 
is  like  in  that  glorious  summertime  that  thou  prizest  so  much,  ana 
mournest  in  the  long  winter  nights  P  For  thee  the  sun  rises  over 
gently  murmuring  woods,  over  shady  scented  grass-carpeted  lanes, 
over  rippling  brooks,  over  quiet,  quaintly  gabled  little  houses,  that 
seem  all  ivy  or  passion-flower,  with  latticed  windows  peeping 
through;  for  thee  the  sun  is  merciful  at  noontide;  for  thee 
are  spreading  trees  and  shaded  nooks  till  the  shadows  lengthen, 
and  the  west  is  glorious,  and  he  setteth  in  a  golden  wealth  of 
nature's  cunningest  cloud-painting.    Such  is  the  summer. 

But  for  me,  who  am  a  child  of  the  great  city,  the  Sun-god  has 
no  pity.  His  rays  strike  the  hard  polished  pavements,  and  are 
reflected  back  in  mockery  of  us,  a  sweltering  crowd  of  human 
beings  that  are  completely  at  his  mercy.  The  very  atmosphere 
seems  to  glow,  and  one's  breath  almost  chokes  one,  so  thick  and 
stagnant  is  the  air.  We  must  suffer  in  silence,  and  with  what  good 
grace  we  may. 

I  am  a  toiler  of  the  city.  All  day  I  labour  in  its  busy  heart, 
and  in  the  evening  am  well  pleased  to  return  to  my  home 
in  a  quiet  suburb,  and  try  to  cool  myself  after  the  heat  and 
languor  of  the  day.  Then  it  is  that  I  have  my  pleasures,  for  even 
in  the  great  city  itself  I  can  find  a  recreation. 


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AnldyloftheCiiy.  151 

Often  of  a  summer's  night  do  I  push  up  the  casement,  and 
gaze  far  across  the  flat  roofs  into  the  darkness,  and  imagine  a  faint 
line  of  blue  hills  in  the  distance.  Sometimes  I  can  hear  the  soft, 
sad  plashing  of  the  waves  on  an  ocean  beach,  and  sometimes  it  is 
a  vision  of  undulating  fields,  and  quiet  hedgerows  lit  with  soft 
moonlight.  Sometimes  it  is  a  dark  forest  of  pine  trees,  and  the 
dull  muffled  moan  from  the  great  city  is  the  mournful  rush  of  the 
wind  sighing  in  its  branches — sometimes  it  is  a  mighty  lake  that 
seems  illimitable,  for  it  fades  into  the  heavens,  and  the  ribbed 
clouds  are  the  sands  on  its  shores.  London  is  sometimes  beauti- 
ful in  the  summer  nights,  but  the  rude  awakening  to  all  its 
hideousness  is  a  sore  wrench. 

Thou,  my  good  country  cousin,  needest  no  imagination. 
Nature  does  it  all  for  thee:  she  appeals  to  all,  educated  and 
uneducated,  cultured  and  uncultured ;  and  she  has  nought  to  do 
with  art  or  imagination. 

Come  thou  with  me  in  spirit,  and  I  will  show  thee  men  that 
thou  wottest  not  of ;  men  who  know  not  what  the  country  is,  who 
-cannot  even  imagine  it ;  for  whom  the  great  city  is  the  be-all  and 
the  end-all.  Canst  thou  realize  what  it  is  to  be  such  a  one — never 
to  long  for  the  country  P  How  can  one  long  for  what  one  has  not 
seen  ?    One  cannot  even  dream  of  it. 

I  will  show  thee  such  a  one ;  aye,  a  million  such,  within  a 
-couple  of  square  miles.  I  will  lend  thee  my  wings  of  imagination, 
and  we  will  take  a  flight  together  into  the  heart  of  the  great  city 
-and  see  what  manner  of  men  are  her  children.  For  she  is  a  cruel 
mother,  the  Great  City,  a  cruel,  relentless  mother.  Come,  let  us 
view  her  as  she  lies  with  her  children  on  her  breast. 

We  pass  those  brightly  lit  streets,  with  dark  patches  between, 
for  those  are  the  homes  of  her  wealthier  children,  who  visit  her 
twice  in  the  year,  and  are  well  content  to  leave  her  for  the  country, 
when  their  short  perfunctory  visits  are  over.  They  have  their 
grouse  moors, their  salmon  rivers,  their  deer  forests,  and  their  moun- 
tains, they  are  not  the  real  children  of  the  city,  they  are  rather 
her  guests.  "  Let  thy  guest  feed  though  thou  hungerest  thyself/' 
says  the  eastern  maxim ;  but  it  is  the  real  ohildren  of  the  city  that 
hunger  and  die  for  her  guests. 

See  the  river  as  it  lies  in  the  moonlight.  That,  too,  has  come 
from  the  country ;  does  it  not  speak  to  thee  with  familiar  voice  P 
No  P  Ah,  it  is  not  like  the  country  stream ;  it  has  become  foul 
^nd  disfigured — the  fate  of  all  that  have  to  do  with  the  city — the 


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152  4n  Idyl  of  the  City. 

air,  the  very  sky,  do  not  escape*    What  chance  then  for  him  that: 
spends  his  life  with  her  P 

The  busy  traffic  has  ceased  to  pour  oyer  the  bridges.  Here  is- 
London  .bridge  that  is  so  thronged  with  a  human  tide  all  day — 
silent  and  untenanted  now.  Nay,  not  untenanted,  for  what  are 
those  dark  masses  huddled  up  in  corners  P  Aye,  what  indeed  P* 
Approach  and  look  at  them.  See  this  undefined  mass  in  this- 
alcove;  one,  two,  three — six  separate  bundles  of  rags!  Look 
closer — they  are  human  beings ;  men  and  women  in  God's  own 
image  and  likeness !  This  shapeless  collection  of  filth : — this  is  a 
man — one  of  the  sons  of  the  Great  City,  and  there — and  there — 
and  there — is  another.  Even  as  we  look  at  him,  he  stirs,  and  a 
muttered  curse  and  foul  imprecation  rises  to  heaven.  Here  at  thy 
feet  lies  one  of  the  Great  City's  daughters — aye,  good  cousin,, 
believe  thou  me,  that  is  a  woman,  although  thou  knowest  not  such ;. 
true,  she  is  the  City's  daughter,  but  still  a  woman.  Thou  turnest 
from  the  sight  P  I  will  show  thee  worse. 

Ah !  what  was  that  shriek  and  that  splash,  thou  askest  P  I 
will  tell  thee.  Look  again  in  that  alcove,  and  count  the  bundles  of 
rags.  One,  two,  three,  four,  five — the  sixth?  In  the  river. 
Nay,  'tis  common  enough. 

Come,  let  us  leave  the  river  then,  and  turn  down  to  this  dark 
patch  of  houses.  Nay,  fear  not — 'tis  a  trifle  unsavoury,  I  confess, 
but  I  will  show  thee  worse.  Let  us  take  this  lane,  leading  as  it 
seems  into  a  filthy  courtyard.  There  are  more  of  the  City'a 
children  in  that  archway;  aye,  children  indeed,  some  of  them; 
you  can  hear  them  cry. 

Approach  this  attic  window,  and  look  in  at  the  home  of  one  of 
the  children  of  the  city.  It  is  a  garret ;  see  how  the  roof  slopes, 
till  it  is  barely  two  feet  from  the  floor.  Thou  wilt  not  look  P 
Well,  I  will,  for  my  eyes  see  more  than  thine. 

It  is  a  child  of  the  city  on  that  bed.  One  does  not  want  much 
insight  to  see  that.  The  stunted  form,  the  withered,  anxious, 
careworn  face,  the  rags  that  serve  for  clothes,  all  betray  the 
parentage.  Here  is  one,  cousin,  who  has  never  seen  the  country, 
who  only  knows  a  river  as  a  festering  mass  of  corruption ; — who 
has  never  known  the  presence  of  Nature  or  heard  her  voice,  whose 
foster-nurse  is  Drudgery,  and  life-companions  Poverty  and  Squalor^ 
He  is  old  for  the  city ;  some  forty  years  perhaps ;  his  hair  is  grey, 
what  there  is  left  of  it.  He  has  been  old  in  all  but  years  since  he* 
was  twenty. 


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An  Idyl  of  the  City.  15$ 

He  is  asleep ;  in  sooth  it  is  not  unlike  the  deep  of  death,  but  it 
ifl  not  so  yet.    I  will  tell  thee  his  dream,  for  he  is  dreaming  now. 

There  is  a  woman's  face  in  it,  and  it  haunts  him  all  through. 
A  face  of  a  daughter  of  the  city,  but  withal  not  ill-favoured* 

He  is  standing  on  his  threshold,  and  she  is  kneeling  at  his  feet. 
It  is  a  wild  wintry  night ;  and  the  biting  wind  is  driving  the 
whirling  sleet  round  the  woman,  as  she  shiveringly  wraps  herself 
and  her  child  in  a  rag  of  a  cloak.  She  seems  to  plead  earnestly, 
and  there  are  tears  in  his  eyes,  and  he  takes  her  in.  And  dream- 
like the  scene  changes. 

A  still  cold  form  lies  on  a  bed  under  a  white  sheet,  motionless  ; 
and  he  is  standing  by  it.  He  raises  the  cloth  from  the  dead 
woman's  face,  and  kisses  her  once,  twice,  thrice.  He  has  a  child 
in  his  arms,  and  he  kisses  it  too.  Again  the  scene  changes.  The- 
sleeper  stirs  in  his  sleep  and  I  can  hear  him  murmur : — 

"  Annie,  my  child  !     Come  back  to  me !    My  child ! " 

It  is  another  face  that  now  appears  to  him,  and  it  is  like  the* 
first.  But  there  is  a  daring,  reckless,  abandoned  look  on  it,  and 
there  is  nothing  womanly  in  it.  Stay !  As  I  look,  the  expression 
changes,  and  a  light  of  unutterable  tenderness  comes  into  its  eyes. 
The  dream-form  beckons  to  him,  and  the  lips  move.  I  cannot  tell 
what  they  say  to  him,  but  he  rises  from  the  pallet  and  the  dream 
vanishes.     He  is  awake  now. 

He  passes  his  hand  across  his  feverish  brow,  and  turns  to  leave- 
the  room.  He  descends  the  crazy  stairs  with  an  uncertain  step, 
and  crosses  the  courtyard. 

Hearest  thou  that  burst  of  ribald  merriment  up  the  street  P* 
Canst  thou  wonder  at  men  retaining  all  the  passions  of  brute 
beasts,  when  there  is  no  saving  influence  in  their  everyday  lives  to- 
restrain  them  from  evil  ? 

Mark  him  now  as  he  totters  into  the  street.  His  steps  are 
faltering,  and  he  looks  round  appealingly,  as  if  in  search  of  some 
one.  Mark  him  well ;  thou  wilt  not  see  such  elsewhere ;  it  will 
be  a  wholesome  lesson  for  thee. 

He  looks  up  the  street  and  down,  and  at  last  wanders  up  it  in 
an  aimless  sort  of  way.  As  we  follow  him,  the  voices  grow  louder 
and  louder,  till  the  drunken  group  comes  in  sight.  Drunken  men 
and  reckless  women !  Five  of  them  reel  down  the  street  bawling 
a  filthy  song  at  the  top  of  their  voices ;  scarce  can  the  women's- 
voices  be  distinguished  from  the  men's,  they  are  so  coarsened  with 
drink. 

He  hears  them  at  length,  and  looks  up  at  them  as  they  near 


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164  Nutshell  Biogram, 

Turn.  Three  men  and  two  women.  He  stands  as  one  struck  blind; 
for  the  face  of  one  is  that  of  the  woman  of  his  dream,  and  he 
recognises  her.  He  steps  forward,  and  throws  himself  at  her  feet 
in  the  midst  of  the  noisy  group,  and  I  can  hear  him  wail : 

"  Annie,  my  child !     Gome  with  me,  my  child." 

For  a  moment  she  stands  in  stupid  amazement ;  then,  suddenly 
sobered,  she  gently  endeavours  to  raise  him,  and  the  dream- 
-expression  comes  into  her  eyes.  But  one  of  the  men  with  a  curse 
strikes  him  to  the  ground,  and  the  moment  of  grace  is  past,  and 
the  throng  reels  on  down  the  street. 

Strange  how  still  he  lies  there  on  the  pavement ;  he  has  not 
moved  since  he  was  struck  down.  A  stream  of  blood  begins  to 
trickle  from  his  temple,  and  forms  a  little  pool  under  his  head* 
He  is  dead,  but  his  dream  was  true ;  for  his  deathblow  came  before 
the  rude  awakening,  and  it  is  the  tender  look  in  his  child's  eyes 
that  he  will  remember  through  eternity. 

Dost  like  the  scene,  cousin  P  Such  things  happen  every  day, 
and  thou  wilt  not  forget  it  in  future.  In  thine  own  peace  and 
happiness  remember  that  there  are  children  of  the  Great  City  that 
suffer  for  thee  and  me. 

T.  F.  W. 


NUTSHELL  BIOGRAMS. 

First  Hakdful. 

[The  name  and  nature  of  this  little  series  bare  partly  been  explained  in  the  opening 
paragraph  of  "A  Web  of  Irish  Biographies"  in  our  last  Number.  These  brief 
•biographical  notes  will  chiefly  be  confined  to  persons  whom  Ireland  in  some  way 
claims  as  her  own,  those  especiallj  who  are  not  found  in  Mr.  A.  Webb's  excellent 
"  Compendium  "  which  excludes  all  the  liying  and  omits  some  notable  dead.  Eren 
the  most  distinguished  persons  pass  from  the  first  of  these  classes  to  the  second ;  for 
instance,  the  Irishman  we  begin  with  has  only  just  died.  The  second  of  these  notes 
appeared  in  the  Boston  Pilot  of  which  Mr.  O'Reilly  is  editor,  so  that  it  is  a  sort  of 
miniature  autobiography.] 

1.  Dr.  Richard  Robert  Madden  was  born  in  Dublin  in  1798,  the 
youngest  of  twenty-one  children  of  an  eminent  Dublin  merchant.  He 
studied  medicine  and  in  1829  became  a  member  of  the  Royal  College 
of  Surgeons  of  England,  of  which  he  was  afterwards  a  Fellow.  In 
1833  he  was  appointed  special  magistrate  in  Jamaica,  and  in  1836 


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Nutshell  £iogram§.  156 

superintendent  of  liberated  Africans  at  Havana,  and  subsequently 
Judge  Advocate.  His  official  position  enabled  him  to  serve  the  cause 
of  the  negroes  with  Wilberforce,  Clarkson,  and  Buxton.  In  the  midst 
of  his  labours  in  these  and  other  offices  he  found  time  to  write  a  large 
number  of  works,  the  best  known  being  his  "  Lives  and  Times  of  the 
United  Irishmen,"  in  seven  volumes.  He  also  wrote  "  The  Life  and 
Martyrdom  of  Savonarola,"  "  Memoirs  of  the  Countess  Blessington," 
•" Travels  in  Turkey  and  Egypt,"  "The  Mussulman,"  "The  Infir- 
mities of  Genius,"  "Travels  in  the  West  Indies,"  "Shrines  and 
Sepulchres  of  the  Old  and  New  World,"  and  many  others.  One  of 
the  most  useful  of  his  works  is  the  "  History  of  Irish  Periodical  Litera- 
ture." His  distinguished  son,  Dr.  Thomas  More  Madden,  has  confined 
his  literary  skill  to  professional  subjects.  Richard  Robert  Madden 
-died  on  the  5th  of  February,  1886,  aged  87  years,  and  was  buried  in 
the  old  graveyard  of  Donnybrook,  near  Dublin. 

2.  John  Boyle  O'Reilly,  was  born  at  Dowth  Castle,  County  Meath, 
Ireland,  June  28th,  1844.  His  father,  William  David  O'Reilly,  was  an 
Accomplished  scholar  and  successful  teacher.  The  future  journalist 
learned  to  set  type  on  the  Drogheda  Argus.  Later  he  was  employed 
48  type-setter  or  stenographer  in  various  English  cities ;  till  finally  at 
the  breaking  out  of  the  revolutionary  movement  in  Ireland,  he  re- 
turned to  his  native  land,  intent  on  doing  his  share  to  advance  her 
desperate  cause*  Enlisting  in  the  Fourth  Hussars,  he  set  himself  to 
«pread  republican  principles  in  the  ranks,  with  the  result  that  he 
was  brought  to  trial,  June  27th,  1866,  pronounced  guilty  of  high 
treason,  and  sentenced  to  be  shot.  This  sentence  was  eventually  com- 
muted to  twenty  years'  penal  servitude.  Confined  successively  at 
Chatham,  Portsmouth,  Portland,  and  Dartmoor,  subsequently  Boyle 
O'Reilly,  with  other  political  convicts,  was  part  of  the  life-freight 
-of  the  crowded  convict-ship  that  sailed  from  England  in  November, 
1867,  and  reached  West  Australia,  January  10th,  1868.  A  little  more 
than  a  year  later  he  effected  his  escape,  but  through  a  tangle  of  dangers 
and  hardships  almost  incredible.  Taken  on  board  the  "  Gazelle,'' 
from  New  Bedford,  Captain  GifFord  commanding,  he  had  a  six  months' 
experience  of  a  whaler's  life.  Returned  from  this  cruise,  and  ere  yet 
falling  in  with  a  ship  for  America,  he  had  several  hair-breadth  escapes 
from  re-capture.  Finally,  he  landed  in  Philadelphia,  November  23rd, 
1869.  In  1870,  he  came  to  Boston  and  took  a  position  on  the  Pilot, 
-contributing  also  to  other  publications  at  home  and  abroad.  In  1873 
his  first  volume,  "  Songs  of  the  Southern  Seas,"  appeared.  In  1876 
he  became,  with  Archbishop  Williams,  owner  of  the  Pilot,  of  which  he 
was  already  editor.  In  1878  appeared  "  Songs,  Legends  and  Ballads ; " 
in  1879,  the  novel,  "Moondyne,"  in  1881  another  volume  of  poems, 


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156  Nutshell  Biograms. 

41  The  Statues  in  the  Block."    All  these  books  have  gone  through 
many  editions. 

3.  Daniel  Connolly  was  born  in  Belleek,  County  Fermanagh,. 
Ireland,  in  1836.  Since  1851  he  has  lived  for  the  most  part  in  New 
York.  During  the  Cival  War,  he  acted  as  Washington  and  Virginia 
correspondent  for  the  New  York  Daily  News.  After  the  war,  he  became 
associate  editor  of  the  Metropolitan  Record.  In  1872,  Mr.  Connolly 
gave  up  journalism  as  an  exclusive  occupation ;  though  he  has  con- 
tinued to  act  as  correspondent  for  several  papers,  among  others  the 
Detroit  Free  Press.  His  poems  have  attracted  much  notice.  They 
are  full  of  real  feeling ;  and  there  is  a  manly  strength  in  his  choice 
and  treatment  of  topics,  most  refreshing  in  these  days  when  boudoir 
poets  abound.  Some  of  the  best  of  Mr.  Connolly's  poems  have  ap- 
peared in  the  Pilot.  They  have  not  yet  been  published  in  book  form. 
He  is  about  to  publish  in  New  York  a  very  full  cyclopedia  of  Irish 
Poets. 

4.  Rev.  Abram  J.  Ryan,  the  poet-priest  of  the  South,  was  born  in 
Virginia  in  1840,  of  Irish  parents.  He  made  his  ecclesiastical  studies 
at  St.  Vincent's  College,  Cape  Girardeau,  Missouri.  All  through  the 
Civil  War  he  was  an  ardent  champion  of  the  cause  of  the  South,  and 
by  speech  and  pen  did  all  he  could  to  advance  it.  Among  the  best  of 
his  poems  are  "  The  Conquered  Banner/'  and  others  on  the  "  Lost 
Cause."  Father  Ryan  was  at  one  time  editor  of  the  Banner  of  the 
South,  a  democratic  paper,  published  in  Augusta,  Georgia.  He  had 
also  editorial  connection  with  the  New  Orleans  Morning  Star.  For 
some  years,  Father  Ryan  was  pastor  of  St.  Mary's  Church,  Mobile, 
Ala  ;  but  latterly  he  has  been  released  from  parish  work,  and  though 
retaining  his  connection  with  the  Diocese  of  Mobile,  resides  at  Biloxi, 
where  he  gives  himself  mainly  to  literary  pursuits.  Father  Ryan'a 
poems  were  published  in  book  form  in  1879  and  had  a  great  and  im- 
mediate success.  He  has  another  volume  nearly  ready  for  publication. 
Father  Ryan  is  also  a  thoughtful  and  vigorous  prose  writer.  He  is  a 
frequent  contributor  to  Donahoe's  Magazine,  the  Baltimore  Mirror,  and 
other  Catholic  publications.  He  is  accounted  among  the  foremost  of 
American  Catholic  poets. 

5.  Geneeal  John  Sullivan,  of  the  American  Revolutionary  War,  was 
son  of  an  Irishman.  He  was  born  in  Berwick,  Maine,  Feb.  17,  1740, 
and  died  in  New  Hampshire,  January  23,  1795.  For  several  years 
before  the  war  he  practised  law  with  great  success  in  Durham,  and 
from  1772  held  a  provincial  Commission  as  Major.  His  heroic  career 
through  the  war  is  well  known  in  the  United  States.  After  the  war, 
on  returning  to  New  Hampshire,  he  was  appointed  Attorney- General,, 


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Nutshell  Biograms.  15T 

and  was  thrice  elected  President  of  the  State.    His  life  was  written 
by  0.  W.  B.  Peabody,  in  Sparks'  •«  American  Biography." 

6.  Jakes  Sullivan,  Governor  of  Massachusetts,  brother  of  General 
John  Sullivan,  was  also  born  at  Berwick,  Maine,  April  22,  1744,  and 
died  in  Boston,  December  10,  1808.  In  1776,  he  was  appointed  a 
Judge  of  the  Superior  Court.  In  1807  he  was  elected  Governor,  and 
was  re-elected  in  1808. 

7.  Thomas  W.  M.  Marshall  was  born  in  the  year  1815,  and  was 
educated  at  Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  where  he  graduated  B.A. 
about  the  year  1840.  Haying  been  ordained  by  the  Bishop  of  Salis- 
bury, he  held  the  living  of  Swallowcliffe,  Wilts,  until  his  reception 
into  the  Catholic  Church,  which  took  place  in  the  private  chapel  at 
Wardour  Castle  about  the  year  1848.  When  he  was  twenty-eight 
years  of  age,  and  still  a  clergyman  of  the  Anglican  Establishment, 
Mr.  Marshall  brought  out  a  bulky  volume  called  Notes  on  ike  Catholic 
Episcopate,  a  work  showing  extensive  reading  and  considerable  powers 
of  reasoning.  While  collecting  his  materials  for  this  book,  Mr.  Mar- 
shall's mind  was  gradually  prepared  to  accept  the  Catholic  Faith.  As 
soon  as  he  became  a  Catholic,  Mr.  Marshall  placed  his  brilliant  talents 
at  the  service  of  the  Church.  While  filling  ,  the  position  of  H.M. 
Inspector  of  Schools  he  wrote  his  Christian  Missions,  a  work  of 
recondite  research,  and  written  in  the  purest  English,  which  has  gone 
through  several  editions  in  this  country  and  in  the  United  States,  and 
which  has  been  translated  into  several  European  languages.  In  pre- 
paring his  materials  for  this  grand  book  Mr.  Marshall  consulted  nearly 
5,000  volumes,  and  by  this  work  his  reputation  as  a  writer  of  vigorous 
English  was  established.  Subsequently  he  wrote  My  Clerical  Friends, 
Church  Defence,  and  Protestant  Journalism.  Besides  these  works,  and  his 
numerous  contributions  to  The  Tablet,  Mr.  Marshall  wrote  occasion- 
ally in  the  Dublin  Review,  and  in  several  magazines,  English 
and  American.  He  was  an  indefatigable  writer,  but  all  his 
powers  were  consecrated  to  the  service  of  religion,  notwithstanding 
many  tempting  offers  from  secular  publications.  As  a  controversialist 
Mr.  Marshall  was  perhaps  unequalled  among  writers  of  our  time,  and 
his  sarcasm,  while  never  ill-natured  or  personal,  was  keenly  felt  by 
the  enemies  of  the  Faith.  In  all  things,  and  above  all  things,  Mr. 
Marshall  was  a  sincere  and  devout  Catholic,  and  in  matters  of  faith  he 
was  as  simple  as  a  child.  About  the  year  1872  or  1873  Mr.  Marshall 
visited  the  United  States,  and  lectured  in  most  of  the  large  towns  on 
subjects  connected  with  the  interests  of  the  Church  and  in  defence  of 
her  .doctrines*  For  his  work  on  Christian  Missions  the  Sovereign 
Pontiff  conferred  on  Mr.  Marshall  the  Cross  of  St.  Gregory,  and  he 
received  the  degree  of  LL.D.  from  the  College  of  Georgetown,  U.S., 
in  consideration  of  bis  services  to  the  Church  in  America.  Mr.  Mar- 
shall died  at  Surbiton,  Surrey,  on  December  14,  1877. 


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15S  Nutshell  Biograms. 

8.  Cornelius  Mahowt  was  born  in  Ireland  in  the  year  1818.  He- 
was  blind  from  infancy.  He  was  brought  by  his  parents  at  an  early 
age  to  the  United  States.  He  was  highly  esteemed  for  the  probity 
and  honesty  of  his  life,  which  was  mainly  devoted  to  the  work  of 
ameliorating  the  condition  of  the  blind.  Himself  a  fine  musician,  he 
knew  what  comfort  his  art  could  bring  to  those  deprived  of  sight,  and 
after  much  study  he  devised  and  perfected  some  thirty  years  ago  a 
system  of  musical  notation  from  which  by  means  of  lines  and  figures- 
embossed  on  thick  music-paper,  the  blind  can  by  the  sense  of  touch 
study  musical  scores  as  readily  as  they  now  read  print  in  the  same 
way.  Professor  Mahony  was  for  the  last  twenty-five  years  an  instruc- 
tor in  the  Institution  for  the  Blind  at  New  York,  where  he  died, 
October  27,  1885,  aged  67  years. 

9.  John  Edwabd  M'Cullagh  was  born  in  Coleraine,  County  Lon- 
donderry, Ireland,  November  2,  1837.  His  father  was  a  small  farmer, 
who  died  in  poverty.  At  the  age  of  fifteen  John,  who  had  helped  to- 
support  himself  by  labouring  in  the  fields,  and  had  received  but  little 
instruction,  emigrated  to  America.  In  New  York  he  found  no- 
encouragement,  and  with  a  few  shillings  in  his  pocket  he  made  his  way 
to  Philadelphia.  Here  he  found  an  uncle  who  had  emigrated  before 
him.  He  had  hard  work  until  Forrest,  recognising  his  talent,  took 
him  up.  He  fell  heir  to  Forrest's  characters,  and  soon  became  the 
leading  tragic  actor  in  America.  His  roles  were  remarkable  for 
strength  and  purity.     He  died  in  Philadelphia,  November  8th,  1885. 

10.  Richard  Dowling  was  born  at  Clonmel,  June  3, 1846.  He> 
was  a  pupil  of  the  Jesuits  at  Limerick,  and  was  at  first  intended  for 
the  legal  profession  and  then  for  commercial  life.  In  1870  he  followed 
his  inclination  for  literary  work  and  made  the  press  his  profession. 
He  was  first  on  the  staff  of  The  Nation,  and  afterwards  engaged  with 
the  clever  Dublin  artist,  Mr.  John  Fergus  O'Hea  in  sundry  attempts 
to  establish  a  comic  paper  in  Ireland — Zoxmus,  Ireland's  Eye,  <fcc. 
Some  of  his  quaint  humorous  papers  were  reprinted  in  book  form  in 
London  by  [Camden  Hotten  (now  Chatto  and  Windus),  under  the 
eccentric  title  of  "  On  Babies  and  Ladders :  Essays  on  Things  in  Gene- 
ral. By  Emmanuel  Kink,  Esq."-- of  which  this  Magazine  expressed 
its  opinion  so'  long  ago  as  February,  1874  (Imsh  Monthly,  Vol.  II,. 
page  125).  At  page  139  of  the  same  volume  will  be  found  an 
exquisitely  written  little  tale  by  Mr.  Dowling,  called  "Mary  of 
Inisard."  In  1874  Mr.  Dowling  went  to  London  where  he  has  since 
followed  his  laborious  vocation,  supplying  romantic  stories  to  city  and 
country  papers,  leading  articles,  descriptive  sketches,  verse,  and  the 
usual  miscellaneous  work  that  falls  to  the  lot  of  the  all-round  writer 
for  the  press.  His  special  bent  is  towards  the  romantic  school  of  fiction, 
of  which  Victo  Hugo  is  a  chief..    Among  his  three-volume  novels  are> 


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Nutshell  Biogrwn*.     -  159» 

"The  Mystery  of  Killard"  (of  which  the  scene  is  laid  in  County 
Glare),  "The  Wierd  Sisters,"  "The  Duke's  Sweetheart"  published 
originally  in  TtnsUy's  MagMine  under  the  more  poetical  name  of 
"  Strawberry  Leaves."  The  Weekly  Freeman  onoe  heralded  the  appear- 
ance of  a  Serial  Tale  in  its  own  columns  from  Mr.  Dowlingfs  pen  by 
stringing  together  criticisms  on  his  former  works  from  The  Academy, 
Morning  Post,  Illustrated  London  News,  World,  Ath&naum,  Globe, 
Examiner,  Whitehall  Review,  &c.  This  litany  of  praise  was  so  strong 
and  earnest  that  one  is  surprised  that  this  Irish  novelist  is  not  more 
widely  appreciated  than  he  seems  to  be,  especially  in  his  own  country. 
Is  Clonmel  proud  of  being  his  birthplace  ? 

11.  Mast  Austin  Carroll  is  another  native  of  Clonmel,  The 
excuse  for  making  her  the  subject  of  a  nutshell  biogram  is  her  great 
devotion  to  literature  under  circumstances  which  might  seem  to  Lave 
no  leisure  for  writing  books.  She  was  born  at  Clonmel  on  the  23rd 
of  February,  1836;  entered  the  Cork  Convent  of  Mercy,  St.  Marie's 
of  the  Isle  in  December,  1853,  and  soon  after  her  profession  was  sent 
to  America  in  October,  1856.  At  first  her  work  lay  in  some  of  the 
northern  States  of  the  Union;  but  in  March,  1869,  she  was  sent  to 
found  a  convent  of  her  Order  in  New  Orleans.-  Yellow  fever  and 
other  trials  came  on  the  young  foundation.  In  1871  Mother  Austin- 
was  the  only  professed  Sister  surviving.  Since  then  the  Institute  has 
prospered  and  sent  out  eight  flourishing  branches,  of  which  our  pages 
have  contained  some  account  in  the  "  Southern  Sketches  "  contributed 
by  their  Foundress ;  for  with  all  these  cares  and  toils  she  found  time 
and  spirit  to  use  her  pen  also.  Though  yellow  fever  has  decimated 
them  again  and  again,  the  New  Orleans  Sisters  now  number  eighty 
between  mother-house  and  branches.  The  majority  of  Sisters  and 
pupils  are  Irish  by  birth  or  descent ;  but  all  nations  are  represented 
among  them.  At  St.  Martinsville,  in  the  country  of  Evangeline's 
wanderings,  French  is  spoken,  and  schools  for  "coloured"  children 
are  attached  to  most  of  their  houses.  And  yet  in  a  climate  where  it 
might  seem  sufficiently  creditable  to  be  able  to  live  on,  this  Sister  of 
Mercy  from  the  banks  of  the  Suir  besides  keeping  all  these  works  in 
working  order,  has  found  leisure  to  compose  and  publish  quite  a  library 
of  original  and  translated  books.  By  far  the  most  readable  and 
fullest  "Life  of  Mother  Catherine  Macaulay"  is  from  her  pen ;  and 
she  is  also  the  historian  of  her  Order*  She  has  devoted  two  large  and 
agreeable  volumes  to  her  "  Leaves  from  the  Annals  of  the  Sisters  of 
Mercy  "  in  Ireland,  England,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  world  except  the 
United  States.  On  the  concluding  volume  she  is  still  engaged  We- 
need  not  enumerate  her  other  writings,  among  which  are  included 
an  edifying  collection  of  stories.  In  this  respect  she  resembles  another 
literary  Nun,  who,  like  her,  has  managed  to  find  literary  leisure  amidst- 


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160  Notes  on  New  Books. 

the  responsibilities  of  governing  several  religions  houses.  We  refer 
to  the  English  Dominicaness,  Mother  Raphael  Drane,  author  of 
"Christian  Schools  and  Scholars/'  "Songs  in  the  Night,"  " Uriel, " 
"  Lady  Glastonbury's  Boudoir/'  and  many  other  works  of  the  most 
•solid  literary  merit. 


NEW  BOOKS. 

Wjb  sometimes  put  in  a  good  word  for  books  that  are  sent  to  us  for 
review,  without  any  hope  that  our  readers  will  at  once  draw  a  practi- 
cal conclusion  from  our  remarks  and  take  steps  to  obtain  a  copy  of  the 
book  in  question.  But  in  the  present  instance  we  desire  and  expect  to 
produce  an  immediate  effect  of  this  kind  among  a  certain  class  of  our 
readers — namely,  the  "loyal  minority,"  the  small  but  intelligent 
minority  who  in  this  prosaic  generation  continue  loyal  to  the  study  of 
poetry  and  have  even  an  appetite  for  sonnets.  The  book  before  us  is 
"  Sonnets  of  this  Century,"  edited  and  arranged,  with  a  critical  Intro- 
duction on  the  Sonnet,  by  William  Sharp.  It  is  the  latest  addition  to 
the  series  of  "  Canterbury  Poets  "  brought  out  by  a  new  publisher 
who  has  lately  risen  into  prominence  and  who  bears  an  auspicious 
name — Walter  Soott,  24  Warwick  Lane,  Paternoster-row,  London,  and 
Newcastle-on-Tyne.  The  neat  little  quarto  has  325  pages,  is  elegantly 
printed  with  red  borders,  and  very  tastefully  and  serviceably  bound, 
all  for  a  single  shilling.  With  a  view  to  our  country  readers  and  the 
practical  conclusion  suggested  above,  we  may  add  that  the  postage 
costs  two  pence.  Not  only  is  it  by  far  the  cheapest  but  it  is  in 
several  respects  the  most  complete  or  at  least  the  most  satisfactory  col- 
lection of  sonnets  within  reach  of  the  ordinary  reader.  For  such  a 
cheap  and  popular  volume  we  might  have  expected  only  a  slight  and 
brief  introduction,  whereas  Mr.  Sharp  discusses  in  eighty  compact 
pages  almost  every  point  connected  with  the  history,  organism, 
and  literature  of  the  Sonnet.  His  biographical  and  critical  notes  at 
the  end  are  extremely  interesting,  and  the  small,  clear  type  compresses 
a  great  deal  of  matter  within  the  limited  space.  The  editor  has  been 
wise  in  following  the  alphabetical  order  of  authors  and  in  confining 
himself  to  this  century.  Milton's  sonnets  we  can  find  elsewhere ;  and, 
as  for  Shakespeare's,  a  previous  volume  in  this  Canterbury  Series, 
edited  by  Mr!  Sharp  also,  gives  those  marvellous  sonnets  in  a  very 
readable  form  along  with  an  excellent  selection  of  Shakespeare's  songs, 
And,  better  still,  all  those  portions  of  •  his  minor  poems  which  can  bo 


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Notes  on  New  Books.  161 

safely  read  by  young  and  old.  It  is  good  to  have  these  exquisite 
snatches  of  poetry  separated  from  the  sensuous  descriptions  which  un- 
fortunately surround  them  in  the  original.  A  cultivated  writer  in  The 
Tablet,  reviewing  very  favourably  Miss  Evelyn  Pyne's  "  Poet  in  May/' 
after  referring  to  one  of  her  sonnets,  spoke  of  another  sonnet  as 
"  another  poem  of  about  the  same  length."  He  evidently  did  not 
recognise  them  as  sonnets  at  all,  and  his  appreciation  of  them  would 
have  been  increased  if  he  had  understood  the  perfection  of  their  form. 
Those  who  know  little  and  those  who  know  a  great  deal  about  sonnets 
will  both  derive  much  pleasure  and  profit  from  reading  carefully  Mr, 
Sharp's  excellent  anthology  of  the  "Sonnets  of  this  Century." 

Mr.  John  Orlebar  Paj  ne,  M. A.,  has  completed  the  publication  of  a 
valuable  work  partly  edited  by  the  late  Very  Rev.  Edgar  Escourt,  F.S.A. 
Canon  of  St.  Chad's  Cathedral,  Birmingham :  "  The  English  Catholic 
Nonjurors  of  1715,  being  a  summary  of  the  register  of  their  estates 
with  genealogical  and  other  notes  and  an  appendix  of  unpublished  docu- 
ments in  the  Public  Record  Office."  It  is  of  great  interest  and  value  for 
English  Catholics,  but  of  course  not  so  much  "  for  those  who  have  no 
friend  or  brother  there,'9  unless  they  have  very  decided  antiquarian 
tastes.  The  editing  is  admirably  done,  and  the  book  is  finely  pro- 
duced by  the  publishers,  Messrs.  Burns  and  Oates,  with  even  the 
aesthetic  luxuries  of  uncut  edges  and  gilt  tops. 

One  of  the  most  solid  and  most  learned  works  produced  of  late  by 
any  Catholic  writer  is  "  Studies  of  Family  Life,  a  Contribution  to 
Social  Science,"  by  Mr.  C.  S.  Devas, M.A.  Oxon,  (London:  Burns  and 
Oates.)  Mr.  Bevas  is  the  author  of  a  very  able  book  on  a  kindred 
subject,  "  Groundwork  of  Economics;  "  and  we  advise  the  reader  of 
the  present  book  to  turn  to  the  end  of  the  index  and  look  over  the  two 
pages  which  contain  the  high  appreciations  of  the  author's  former  work, 
given  not  only  by  Catholic  authorities  such  as  The  Dublin  Review,  The 
Month,  The  Catholic  World,  The  Tablet,  and  The  Weekly  Register,  but  also 
by  the  Saturday  Review,  The  Spectator,  The  Guardian,  and  many  other 
Protestant  reviewers.  The  same  patient  research  and  the  same  skill 
in  marshalling  the  resources  of  his  learning  are  displayed  in  the  present 
^volume,  which  will  be  often  found  of  particular  value  to  the  preacher 
and  the  publicist.  The  immense  array  of  facts  and  statistics  is  rendered 
more  readily  available  by.being  grouped  into  compact  and  well  arranged 
paragraphs.  To  these,  not  to  the  pages,  are  the  references  made  in  an 
excellent  index  of  twenty  pages. 

There  were  formerly  Premonstratensian  Monasteries  in  Ireland  on 
Trinity  Island  in  Lough  Oughter,  Co.  Cavan;  on  another  Trinity 
Island  in  Lough  Key,  to  which  the  Most  Rev.  Br.  Healy  some  years  ago 
devoted  a  very  learned  and  interesting  paper  in  this  Magazine  in  May 
1878  (Irish  Monthly,  voL  vi.,  page  273  j)  at  Goodborn  or  Woodborn 
near  Carrickfergus ;  at  Enagh-Dure  or  de  Portu  Patrum  near  Tuam ; 
Vol.  xiv.  No.  153.  13 


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168  Notes  on  New  Books. 

at  Kilamoy  or  Atmoy  in  Sligo ;  and  at  Ballymore  m  Westmeath.  The- 
Oder  of  Prftmontrfc  has  lately  been  re-established  In  England  at 
Oowle  near  Doncaster,  and  one  of  St.  Norbert's  sons,  the  Ber.  Martin 
Genders,  has  thought  it  expedient  to  publish  a  fuller  life  of  his 
Founder  in  English  than  that  contained  in  Alban  Butler's  great  work. 
This  "  life  of  St  Norbert,  Founder  of  the  Order  of  Pr&nontre'  and 
Archbishop  of  Magdeburg  "  is  brought  out  attractively  by  Mr.  Wash- 
bourne  the  Publisher. 

We  are  delighted  to  perceive  the  wide  appreciation  that  Mrs.  Frank 
PentrilFs  excellent  story  of  "  Odile  "  is  receiving  from  the  critics.  The 
Saturday  Review  dropped  its  habitual  sneer  in  mentioning  it ;  and  the 
Academy  gave  it  emphatic  praise  and  prominent  notice  among  novels 
of  much  greater  length  and  greater  pretensions.  The  Tablet  of  January 
30  describes  it  as  "a  pretty  little  story,  exceedingly  simple,  but  told 
with  a  charm  that  maintains  its  interest  throughout."  Our  own  opinion 
of  "  Odile  "  has  been  expressed  before,  but  we  may  add  that  we  believe* 
it  to  be  by  far  the  bost  tale  that  has  issued  from  the  O'Connell-street 
Press  since  the  publication  of  "  The  Walking  Trees,"  and  even  thai 
wonderful  phantasy,  so  vivid  a  triumph  of  imagination  and  of  a  magical 
style,  will  be  considered  less  interesting  than  the  present  story  by 
matter-of-fact  readers  old  and  young. 

Another  book  which  we  lately  recommended  to  our  readers  is  thus 
spoken  of  in  The  Weekly  Register  of  February  13 : — 

"A  daughter  of  our  Irish  poet  of  happy  memory,  Denis  Florence  Mac Carthy» 
herself  a  poetess,  and  also  a  nun  of  the  Dominican  Order,  has  worked  out  a  quaint 
and  tender  idea  of  her  own  by  giving  us  The.  Birthday  Booh  of  Our  Dead,  in  which 
she  has  collected  many  of  the  most  soothing  and  beautiful  thoughts  that  have  been 
suggested  to  poets  and  prose-writers  by  the  death  of  those  for  whose  loss  their  hearts 
had  bled.  Many  eyes  from  which  the  tears  are  yet  flowing  for  irreparable  loss  will 
rest  gratefully  on  the  pages  of  this  book ;  and  many  who  have  learned  to  look  gladly 
towards  heaven  when  the  dear  face  to  be  seen  no  more  on  earth  arises  in  the  memory, 
will  seek  out  eagerly  the  consoling  verse  which  reads  like  an  angel's  message  between* 
soul  and  soul.  The  compiler  of  this  book  deserves  the  thanks  of  all  who  have  loved 
and  lost,  for  her  ingenuity  in  inventing  a  new  and  quite  original  form  of  comfort  for 
the  sorrowful." 

Lady  Herbert  introduces  with  an  interesting  preface  "  The  Life  of 
the  Venerable  Joseph  Marchand,  Apostolic  Missionary  and  Martyr," 
translated  from  the  French  of  the  Abbe  Jaequenet  (Dublin :  M.  H.  Gill 
and  Son).  This  holy  Missionary  suffered  a  terrible  martyrdom  in  China,, 
in  1835.  The  process  of  his  beatification  was  introduced  during  the 
pontificate  of  Gregory  XVI.  In  the  English  edition  too  many 
quotations  from  Scripture  and  A  Kempis  are  left  in  Latin,  and  in  a 
well  known  text  we  notice  the  misprint  in  reliquio.  This  little  book  is 
interesting  and  edifying  beyond  the  average. 

Messrs.  M.  H.  Gill  and  Son  of  Dublin  hare  issued  a  second  edition 
of  "  The  Catholic  Soldier's  Guide  during  his  stay  Abroad  n  by  Father 
George  "Wenniger,  8.J.    Please  God,  it  will  run  through  many  an 


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Xotm  m  Nm  Book*.  16S 

•flftfon,  for  it  i»  an  admrakfe  book,  and  is  interesting  reading  for 
others  besides  soldiers.  It  is  thoroughly  practical  and  brought  down  to 
date,  as,  where  the  author  is  encouraging  a  soldier  to  utilise  even  his 
tine  in  prison  if  he  shonld  unfortunately  get  into  trouble,  he  adds:  "Itis 
well  to  know  how  many  have  during  their  stay  in  prison  acquired  great 
Warning  and  other  accomplishments,  as  Mr.  Davitt."  The  sixth  chapter 
is  devoted  to  a  calendar  of  soldier-saints.  It  has  often  been  said  that 
the  soldier's  trade  is  more  largely  represented  than  any  other  profession. 
Let  us  count  up,  adding  together  not  only  the  individual  saints  but 
also  the  bands  of  soldier-martyrs  whose  names  are  not  given  separately. 
The  soldier-saints  whose  names  are  given  number  185  ;  and  in  addi- 
tion there  are  12,784,  made  up  of  bands  and  regiments,  like  the  Theban 
Legion,  martyred  wholesale. 

The  American  Catholic  Quarterly  Review  continues  to  maintain  its 
place  in  the  front  rank  of  periodical  literature.  The  January  Part 
consists  of  two  hundred  large  octavo  pages  divided  among  fourteen 
articles  mostly  of  an  elaborate  kind.  The  lay  writers  predominate 
largely  this  time — St.  George  Mivart,  Arthur  Marshall,  Gilmary  Shea, 
Bryan  Clinch,  and  others.  Dr.  Chatard,  Dr.  Corcoran,  and  Father 
Treacy,  S.J.,  represent  the  clerical  element.  This  Review  is  a  literary 
work  of  the  highest  and  most  solid  merit,  worthy  of  the  marvellous 
development  of  the  Catholic  Church  in  the  States. 

"  Socialist,  Protestant,  Catholic,"  is  a  brochure  of  forty  pages,  well 
printed  by  W.  H.  Barrett,  Chichester,  giving  an  account  in  a  very  art- 
less and  amusing  way  of  the  writer's  conversion  by  very  slow  stages. 
She  was  born  of  irreligious  parents  in  France,  whose  only  religion  was 
Socialism.  She  became  a  Protestant  while  acting  as  a  governess  in 
England,  and  was  then  for  the  first  time  baptized.  Some  time  after 
she  was  led  on  to  embrace  the  Catholic  faith  after  painful  and  careful 
study  and  preparation,  and  evidently  trials  not  a  few.  Such  narratives 
have  more  than  one  instructive  lesson  for  those  who  are  born  in  the 
bosom  of  the  true  Church.    Non  fecit  taliter  omni  nationi. 

Monsignor  Capel  has  published  in  the  United  States  several  clear 
and  able  pamphlets  and  books  on  controversial  points.  Pustet  and 
Co.  of  New  York  and  Cincinnati,  have  issued  the  fifth  thousand  of  his 
little  treatise,  "  The  Pope,  Vicar  of  Christ,  Head  of  the  Church." 
Other  tracts,  by  the  same  author,  are  in  their  25th  thousand. 

u  Cleanliness  of  Person  and  Home"  is  the  very  practical  subject 
of  lecture  delivered  before  the  Young  Ireland  Society  in  Dublin  last 
December,  by  Mr.  L.  Ginnell,  and  published  by  Sealy,  Bryers,  and 
Walker,  of  Abbey-street.  It  is  a  far  better  and  more  useful  subject 
than  public  lectures  are  generally  devoted  to,  and  it  is  very  cleverly 
handled.  "  Would  that  its  tones  might  reach  the  rich ! "  sang  poor 
Hood.  Would  that  these  kindly  counsels  were  taken  to  heart  by  the 
poor  and  the  artisan  classes.    Cleanliness  costs  something,  but  poverty 


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164  Another  Irish  Nun  in  Exile. 

does  not  excuse  all  our  shortcomings.  This  lecture  is  full  of  Tory 
useful  observations  and  suggestions. 

Another  lecture  is  on  "  Joy  and  Laughter/'  by  Y.  M.  (Burns  and 
Oates)— very  ingenious,  exhibiting  not  a  little  erudition,  and  teaching 
withal  many  a  serious  lesson. 

Father  Sebastian  Keens  of  the  Congregation  of  the  Passion,  has 
issued  a  sixth  edition  of  his  very  complete  "  Manual  of  the  Seven 
Dolours  "  (James  Duffy  and  Sons). 

We  must  end  for  this  month  with  St.  Barbara.  No,  5  of  the  Lays 
of  St.  Joseph's  Chapel  gives  us  for  fourpenoe  an  account  of  St.  Barbara 
and  her  literature,  a  lay  in  her  honour,  a  translation  of  her  "  Little 
Office,"  and  of  another  Latin  hymn — all  very  devout  and  written  with 
good  taste,  if  not  quite  such  exquisite  poetry  as  the  "  Saint  Barbara  " 
of  Miss  Mulholland's  "  Vagrant  Verses."  What  the  critics  are  saying 
about  the  last  named  book  may  be  seen  on  the  advertising  pages 
which  follow  at  the  end  of  this  Number. 


ANOTHER  IRISH  NUN  IN  EXILE. 

OUR  pages  have  more  than  once  paid  the  tribute  of  admiration 
to  daughters  of  the  Irish  race  who  have  devoted  their  lives 
to  God's  work  among  souls  in  countries  far  away  from  "  the  fair 
hills  of  holy  Ireland."  The  new  Chief  Secretary  for  Ireland  has 
written  somewhere  that  "  the  type  of  St.  Vincent  de  Paul  is  as 
indispensable  to  progress  as  the  type  of  Newton."  Those  brave 
and  devoted  women  do  more  for  the  real  progress  of  humanity 
than  a  thousand  "  fireside  philanthropists  great  at  the  pen."  The 
heroism  of  such  a  life  is  greatly  increased  in  those  who  add  to 
their  other  sacrifices  the  enduring  hardship  of  voluntary  exile. 
This  sacrifice  again  is  immensely  greater  for  women  than  for  men, 
and  greater  even  than  it  is  now  was  it  forty  or  fifty  years  ago 
when  the  subject  of  this  notice  bade  adieu  to  Innisfail.  We  have 
learned  meanwhile  that  Ireland  is  not  so  big  as  we  once  thought  it 
and  that  the  rest  of  the  world  is  not  quite  uninhabitable. 

Mary  Ursula  Frayne — to  give  her  the  only  name  we  are 
acquainted  with — was  born  in  Dublin  in  1816.  In  her  eighteenth 
year  she  joined  the .  newly-formed  Sisters  of  Mercy  in  Baggot- 
street,  so  that,  taking  her  vows  two  years  and  a  half  later,  she  had 
at  her  death  reached  the  golden  jubilee  of  her  religious  life.  When 
she  had  been  seven  years  under  the  personal  influence  of  the  holy 


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Another  Irish  Nun  in  Exile.  165 

Foundress  of  the  Order,  Mother  Catherine  Macauley,  volunteers 
were  invited  for  the  first  establishment  beyond  the  Atlantic — in 
what  was  supposed  to  be  the  home  of  snows  and  fogs,  Newfound- 
land. Sister  Ursula  volunteered  and  led  out  the  first  band  of 
Sisters  as  Superior,  in  1842,  and  there  they  have  been  at  work 
ever  since.  When  initial  difficulties  were  over,  she  was  recalled ; 
and  so  she  was  ready  in  1846  to  play  the  same  part  under  still 
more  difficult  circumstances.  Mother  Ursula  was  again  Superioress 
of  a  brave  little  band  of  Sisters  who  arrived  in  Perth  in  Western 
Australia  in  the  January  of  that  year.  During  the  forty  years 
since  then,  the  Sisters  of  Mercy  have  been  at  work  in  that  colony 
in  which  the  difficulties  are  much  greater  and  the  aids  and 
advantages  much  fewer  than  in  such  prosperous  cities  as  Sydney 
and  Melbourne.  All  honour  to  the  brave  novice  who  broke  through 
very  tender  ties  to  follow  this  arduous  vocation  so  far  away,  and 
who  is  still  toiling  there  !  And  all  honour  to  the  young  Irish 
maidens  who  lately  left  happy  homes  to  join  her  in  the  work  ! 

Mother  Ursula  herself  had  meanwhile  passed  on  to  another 
sphere  of  labour.  When  the  early  hardships  of  this  mission, 
which  were  exceptional  in  their  nature  and  in  their  grievousness, 
bad  been  to  a  certain  extent  overcome,  and  an  orphanage  and 
schools  had  been  established,  Mrs.  Frayne  was  summoned  to  found 
a  house  of  her  Order  in  Melbourne  in  1857,  upon  the  pressing 
invitation  of  the  Most  Reverend  Dr.  Goold.  A  splendid  convent 
in  Nicholson-street,  in  that  city  of  the  Yarra  Yarra,  is  only  one  of 
her  works  in  Victoria.  St.  Vincent's  Orphanage  at  Emerald  Hill 
was  under  her  immediate  care  for  exactly  a  quarter  of  a  century. 
One  of  the  last  branches  sent  out  from  Melbourne  is  flourishing  at 
a  place  called  Kilmore — evidently  called  so  from  love  of  the  old 
country  at  home.  Mother  Ursula  died  the  happy  death  which 
might  be  expected  to  crown  so  holy  and  so  self-sacrificing  a  life  on 
the  ninth  day  of  last  June.  For  her  surely  that  last  beatitude  of 
the  cjead  who  die  in  the  Lord  must  mean  a  great  deal — "  their  works 
follow  them."  How  much  has  followed  her !  It  seems  too  little 
to  pray  for  such  a  one  that  she  may  rest  in  peace.  And  this,  thank 
God,  is  nothing  very  much  out  of  the  common,  but  is  only  a  sample 
of  the  heroism  displayed  every  day  as  a  mere  matter  of  course  by 
hundreds  and  thousands  of  the  daughters  of  Eve — of  the  Second 
Eve,  Mary — and  especially  by  the  daughters  of  St.  Brigid,  all  the 
world  over,  God  be  praised ! 


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THE  O'CONNELL  PAPERS. 

PART  XXU. 

Irish  Liberals  Fifty  Years  Ago— John  O'Conxkll — Dr.  Crollt,  Archbishop 
or  Armagh— John  Rkogh — Lord  Devon. 

At  this  particular  crisis  of  Irish  history  there  is  a  special  interest 
in  recalling  the  names  of  the  most  advanced  Liberal  politicians  at  a 
date  not  very  remote.  And  yet  it  will  be  considered  very  remote.  I 
am  not  able  to  fix  the  year,  for  the  document  is  not  dated,  but  it  would 
be  easy,  with  a  little  research,  to  approximate  to  the  exact  date,  for 
replies  to  the  circular  are  to  be  sent  to  Sergeant  Woulfe,  M.P.,  11  Ely- 
place,  Dublin — namely,  that  Catholic  lawyer,  who  was  soon  to  be 
Chief  Baron  Woulfe,  and  whose  name  has  been  printed  in  every  copy 
of  The  Nation,  week  by  week,  since  the  15th  of  October,  1842,  with  a 
short  break  after  '48 :  for  the  motto  of  The  Nation  consists  of  these 
words  of  Chief  Baron  Woulfe  :  "  To  create  and  foster  public, 
opinion  in  Ireland  and  make  it  racy  of  the  soil."  During 
what  year  or  years  was  Woulfe  a  member  of  Parliament?  The 
circular  issued  in  his  name  was  for  the  purpose  of  creating  a 
Liberal  Registration  Committee  to  cope  with  the  activity  of  the 
Tories  in  securing  the  franchise  for  their  party.  To  the  requisition 
are  affixed  facsimiles  of  the  autograph  signatures  of  the  following 
Irishmen : — Clements,  P.  Bellew,  O'Connor  Don,  M.  S.  Chapman, 
Stephen  Woulfe,  John  H.  Talbot,  Charles  A.  Walker,  B.  L.  ShiaL 
Cornelius  O'Brien,  R.  M.  Bellew,  C.  Fitzeimon,  James  Grattan,  <J.  W. 
Evans,  Henry  Grattan,  Dominick  Bonayne,  Gonville  Ffrench,  James 
John  Bagot,  Henry  Arabin,  James  Lewis  OTarreii  [one  name  illegible], 
E.  Lawless,  James  Power,  David  B.  Pigott,  Joseph  Hone,  Killeen, 
Thomas  Esmonde,  Bichard  Trench,  W.  W.  Eitzwilliam  Hume,  Wn. 
Murphy,  Robert  Tighe,  John  Fetherston  Haugh,  C.  J.  Trench,  T.  C. 
Morgan,  J.  M.  Somerville,  Sam  White,  Henry  White,  Edward  Wol- 
stenholms,  Henry  B.  Westrenra,  Robert  Chaloner  [torn  off]  Musgrave, 
William  Sharman  Crawford,  J.  Parnell,  D.  Henry,  John  Power, 
Bichard  P.  O'Reilly,  John  Ennis,  Christopher  McDonnell,  Percy 
Nugent,  Bart.,  Gerald  Dease,  Hugh  M.  Tuite,  Richard  Nagle,  William 
J.  Brabazon,  Robert  Cassidy,  Robert  Arohbold,  W.  A.  Vigors,  Win. 
Yilliers  Stuart,  Leonard  Dobbin,  Charles  Pentland,  George  Taaffe, 
Stephen  Grehan,  Wm.  John  Hancock,  David  Roche,  B.  Keane,  N.  Bali 
This  representative  list  of  the  "  great  Liberal  party"  in  Ireland  in 
those  days  would  require  a  good  deal  of  annotating  to  bring  out 
its  points  of  interest;  but  we  can  only  remark  the  absence  of 
O'ConnelTs  name,  and  pass  on. 


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A  little  space  may  at  this  point  be  oocupied  by  *n  uiurathoriseJi 
extract  from  a  private  letter  sent  to  the  editor  of  these  O'Coaatell 
Papers  by  one  who  is  deeply  skilled  in  all  literary  matters,  those 
•specially  whioh  •concern  Ireland  : — 

u  Those  discursive  jottingB  called  the  '  O'Cooaell  Papers'  give  <a* 
great  pleasure.  I  am  glad  to  learn  something  about  Mrs.  Fitesimon, 
much  as  her  ordinary  verse  fell  below  the  level  of  •  The  Woods  of 
Kylinoe.'  By  the  way,  this  is  not  a  Nation  poem:  we  commonly 
attribute  too  muoh  to  that  treasury  of  '  Young  Ireland/  When  the 
*  Woods'  first  appeared  I  cannot  say — but  it  is  to  be  found,  under  the 
title  of  'Song  of  an  Irish  Emigrant  in  North  America  (ait— The 
Woods  of  Kylinoe)'  in  The  Citizen,  for  April,  1840.  I  think  this  was 
its  first  appearance.  I  may  add,  that  this  and  many  other  poems  in 
The  Citizen  are  signed  'L.N.F.' — having  a  full  stop  between  the  first 
two  letters.  The  '  Woods'  re-appeared,  of  course,  in  Daffy's  *  Ballad 
Poetry,'  in  1845  (and  were  there  signed  LNJF.).  There  seems  indeed 
a  conspiracy  (headed  by  G-avan  Duffy)  to  claim  everything  good  for 
the  Nation :  e.g.,  I  have  found  that  pretty  song,  the  '  Peasant  Girls/  in 
Kennedy's  [Glasgow]  '  Catholic  Magazine,'  for  February,  18*37,  but 
in  1843  The  Nation  coolly  'marked  it  for  her  own,'  and  it  duly  ap- 
peared in  the  '  Spirit.' 

"  The  '  Recollections'  [by  Mrs.  Fitzsimon]  are  exceedingly  interest- 
ing. I  hope  you  may  be  able  to  give  us  plenty  of  such  matter,  from 
the  same  bureau.  The  references  to  Charles  Phillips  reminds  me  of 
my  own  conflicting  feelings  about  that  man,  who  could  speak  so  well 
and  so  badly,  be  such  a  lover  of  liberty,  and  such  a  malignant  enemy 
of  his  friends.    His  '  poetry'  savours,  like  the  man  himself,  of  quackery. 

"  John  O'Oonneli's  rhymes  in  the  Nation — '  What's  my  Thought 
Like?'  and  'The  House  that  Paddy  Built/  were  indeed  miserable 
(that's  too  strong  a  word  for  the  first) ;  in  the  later  editions  oi  the 
4  Spirit'  a  more  *  symmetrical'  song  called  '  Was  it  a  Dream,'  is  attri- 
buted to  him.  It  seems,  indeed,  a  graceful  transformation  of  his  non- 
sensical prose,  '  Vision.'  In  his  '  Recollections  and  Experiences'  he 
says  of  his  writing  in  the  Nation — '  Although  I  had  the  honour  of 
being  mentioned  in  the  programme  of  the  newspaper  as  one  of  its 
intended  contributors,  I  never  was  so  beyond  three  articles,  one  of  the 
most  veritable  and  truly  prosaic  prose,  and  two  of  rhyme,  doubtless  still 
more  prosaic  and  heavy/  (The  italics  are  his).  His  metrical  letter 
is  very  amusing.    Too  olever  to  be  called  '  doggerel/  is  it  not  ? 

"  John  O'ConnelTs  reputation  has  suffered  painful  ill-usage  (at  the 
hands  of  'Young  Ireland')  ;  it  was  already  burdened  with  a  heap  of 
his  'unsaleable  copies/  it  stumbled  along  shockingly  in  trying 
political  courses;  and  Oavan  Duffy,  who  forgets  none  of  his  early 
antagonisms,  has  just  laid  the  '  last  straw*  on  its  fteader  back.  Yet 
I  have  a  singular  and  interesting  proof— to  be  divulged  some  time— • 


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168  The  ffConnell  Papers. 

both  of  John  G* Conneli's  great  ability,  and  of  his  passionate  love  of 
Ireland." 

These  not  very  envenomed  comments  were  called  forth  by  the 
tenth  instalment  of  these  O'Connell  Papers,  in  April,  1883  (Irish 
Monthly,  vol.  xi.,  page  219).  To  justify  the  epithet  "discursive," 
applied  to  the  series  in  the  beginning  of  this  extract,  the  letters  to  fill 
the  rest  of  our  space  will  be  of  a  very  miscellaneous  kind,  and  wholly 
unconnected  with  one  another,  except  in  being  addressed  to  O'Con- 
nell. When  Lord  Mayor  of  Dublin,  in  1842,  he  received  the 
following  letter  from  the  Primate,  Dr.  Orolly,  Cardinal  Cullen's  im- 
mediate predecessor : — 

Armagh,  14th  April,  1842. 
My  dear  Lord  Mayor, 

A  petition  to  the  House  of  Commons  has  been  forwarded 
to  your  care  by  the  Catholics  of  Armagh,  who  entertain  the  hope  that  you 
will,  in  Parliament,  support  the  reasonable  prayer  of  their  Petition  with 
your  extensive  influence  and  powerful  advocacy.  From  the  circumstances  in 
which  all  the  Catholics  on  the  panel  were  excluded  from  the  jury-box  at  the 
late  trial  of  Francis  Hughes  for  the  murder  of  Thomas  Powell,  you  will  easily 
perceive  that,  if  such  an  exclusive  system  be  not  altered,  neither  the  lives  nor 
the  character  of  Her  Majesty's  loyal  Catholic  subjects  will  be  safe  in  this  part  of 
Ireland.  I  am  intimately  acquainted  with  some  of  the  respectable  Catholics 
who  were  set  aside  by  the  Crown  Solicitor  at  the  trial  of  Francis  Hughes,  and 
knowing  their  integrity,  I  do  not  hesitate  to  declare,  that  their  exclusion  was 
calculated  to  fill  the  minds  of  the  Catholics  of  Ulster  with  alarming  apprehen- 
sions, that  trial  by  jury  will  not  afford  impartial  protection  to  their  properties,. 
their  liberties,  or  their  lives.  You  have  always  endeavoured  to  obtain  even* 
handed  justice  for  your  fellow-countrymen,  and  your  friends  in  this  ancient  city 
join  me  in  the  request  that  you  will  use  your  most  strenuous  exertions  to  obtain 
from  Parliament  that  legal  redress,  which  is  so  fairly  claimed  in  the  Petition, 
which  will  be  entrusted  to  your  care.  I  have  the  honour  to  remain,  with  the 
highest  respect, 

My  dear  Lord  Mayor, 

Your  faithful  and  obedient  servant, 

•ji  W.  Crolly. 
Daniel  O'Connell,  Esq.,  Lord  Mayor  of  Dublin. 

Dr.  Crolly  has  often  been  blamed  for  being  too  moderate,  and  yet 
see  how  he  feels.  If  a  fair  attempt  at  just  and  equal  government  had 
been  made  in  Ireland  in  bygone  days,  many  things  which  have 
happened  sinoe  would  have  been  prevented. 

Lord  Devon  wished  well  to  Ireland,  and  the  Devon  Commission  did 
good,  and  is  still  referred  to.     The  following  letter  relates  to  it : — 

4  Bayswatrr-sqtjare, 
December  2. 
Sir,  - 

I  beg  to  thank  you  for  your  letter  of  the  25th  November. 
The  pressure  of  the  County  Cess,  and  the  whole  of  the  Grand  Jury  System 
as  to  its  fiscal  operations,  are  strictly  within  the  scope  of  our  inquiry,  and  we- 


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The  (TConnell  Papers.  169 

shall  be  thankful  for  any  information  which  you  can  give  us  relating  to  that 
subject. 

.  It  would  be  very  unfair  to  infer  from  your  consent  to  be  examined  that  you 
either  approve  the  Commission  or  entertain  any  hope  of  a  good  result  from  it. 
I  take  it  only  as  an  evidence  of  your  desire  not  to  throw  any  obstacle  in  the  way 
of  any  proceeding  which  has  for  its  professed  object  an  improvement  in  tho 
condition  of  the  people  of  Ireland. 

I  have  written  to  Ireland  upon  your  wish  to  see  some  portion  of  tho 
evidence. 

I  will  not  omit  this  opportunity  of  expressing  my  acknowledgments  for  the- 
very  hospitable  reception  given  to  us  at  Derrinane.    The  fine  scenery  and  perfect 
retirement  of  that  place  must  be  a  source  of  great  enjoyment  to  you. 
I  have  the  honour  to  be 

Your  faithful  and  obedient  servant, 

Dkvon. 
D.  O'Connell,  Esq. 

From  the  Devon  Commission  to  the  Veto  Question  is  a  long 
leap  backwards.  The  following  letter  was  addressed  by  John  Keogh^ 
the  Catholic  leader  at  the  beginning  of  the  century  which  is  now 
hastening  to  its  close,  to  the  young  man  who  was  already  taking  his 
place  in  the  van  of  Irish  Catholics.  The  Catholic  leader's  suburban 
demesne  at  Harold's-cross  -is  now  the  Protestant  burying-ground,. 
where  Hogan's  statue  of  Thomas  Davis  is  also  buried. 

Mount  Jkbomk, 

12th  February,  1810. 
Dbab  Sir, 

I  am  extremely  obliged  by  your  kind  attention,  in  favouring  me 
with  the  perusal  of  Mr.  Jerningham's  letter  which  I  return  herewith. 

It  seems  that  Lords  Grenville  and  Grey  have  yielded  the  important  point, 
of  not  calling  a  Vkto  by  that  name.  These  statesmen  and  candidates  for  power 
are  content  with  the  substance,  under  any  other  title ;  the  English  Catholics 
also  approve  of  the  terms  in  their  5th  resolution — being  u  vague  and  general," 
and  appear  happy  in  this  "  unexpected  turn  in  the  minds  of  our  public  friends." 
How  weak  and  childish  is  this  if  they  are  really  serious! 

I  entertain  no  doubt  that  if  a  similar  measure  should  be  proposed  to  the 
Catholic  body,  it  will  be  reprobated.  They  will  not,  I  hope,  agree  to  arrange- 
ments to  be  made  for  them  by  any  others,  but  first  demand  what  are  those 
arrangements  or  concessions  to  which  Lord  G.  alludes. 

The  situation  of  the  Catholics  of  Ireland  is  critical  and  dangerous.  The 
precipitate  conduct  of  the  English  Catholics  will  increase  our  difficulties.  Con- 
fidence and  union  between  clergy  and  laity  may  yet  save  both.  One  false  step 
may  [divide  and  ruin  us  for  ever.  May  God  direct  our  humble  efforts  or  the 
efforts  of  those  who  act  for  the  body. 

I  am  very  respectfully, 

Your  obliged, 

John  Kbooh. 


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170  Tke  0€<m*eil  Paper*. 


While  fiiese  paper*  have  Veea  ia.  eons*  of  pwUioafoa,  Mn« 

our  readers  hare  kindly  sent  letters  of  the  Liberator,  which  had  ' 
treasured  up  in  their  domestic  archives.  Mr.  Edtnond  Fitzgerald 
Ryan,  who  has  lately  resigned  the  office  of  Resident  Magistrate  «t 
Wexford,  was  Mayor  of  his  native  city,  Limerick,  in  the  year  1846. 
One  of  his  first  duties  was  to  invite  O'Connell  to  a  banquet  to  be 
given  to  the  county  and  city  members.  Here  is  Of Council's  "kind 
No."  :— 

MERRIOK-8Q17AR1C, 

31rf  December,  1845. 
My  dbab  Ma  yob, 

I  received  with  great  satisfaction  the  invitation  you  trans- 
mitted to  me,  to  attend  the  dinner  to  be  given  to  your  patriotic  members  for 
the  county  and  city  of  Limerick.  1  am  sincerely  sorry  that  I  cannot  accept 
that  invitation,  as  the  Parliament  meets  for  the  despatch  of  business  on  the  22nd, 
the  day  after  that  intended  for  the  festival.  I  fee)  it  a  sacred  duty  to  attend  at 
the  opening  of  the  House,  in  order  to  give  the  best  support  in  my  poor  power  to 
the  Cheap  Bread  Bill,  to  be  brought  in  either  by  Lord  John  Russell  or  Sir 
Robert  Peel,  I  care  little  which ;  either  shall  have  my  active  support  for  that 
measure,  deeming  it  as  I  do  of  paramount  importance  to  the  labouring  classes 
in  Ireland,  as  well  as  in  England.  Nothing  but  a  pressing  necessity  of  this 
kind  would  prevent  me  from  fulfilling  the  pleasing  duty  of  paying  the  tribute  of 
respect  and  gratitude  to  the  truly  patriotic  members  for  your  city  and  county. 

As  to  your  saying,  my  good  friend,  that  Mr.  Smith  O'Brien  is  second  only 
to  me,  permit  me  to  tell  you  a  fact  that  all  Ireland  recognizes  that  Mr.  O'Brien 
is  not  second  to  any  living  man  in  the  noble  disinterestedness  and  practical  utility 
of  his  patriotism. 

Your  grandfather,  respected  by  all,  was  my  friend ;  your  father,  esteemed  by 
all,  was  my  friend ;  and  I  am  proud,  Mr.  Mayor,  to  subscribe  myself  with 
affectionate  regard, 

Your  obliged  and  faithful  friend, 

Daniel  O'Connell. 
The  Right  Worshipful  the  Mayor  of  Limerick. 


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EICHAED  EOBEET  MADDEN. 
In  Memoriam. 

CUBING  the  last  month  an  Irish  literary  veteran  has  passed  away, 
whose  name  has  a  right  to  be  recorded  in  these  pages.  He  is 
indeed  commemorated  already  on  an  earlier  page  of  this  present 
number  where  the  incidents  of  his  life  are  condensed  into  the  first  of 
our  "  Nutshell  Biograms."  It  was  speoially  characteristic  of  his  gene- 
rous nature  that  his  marriage  with  the  daughter  of  Mr.  John  Elmsley, 
which  made  Him  the  owner  of  property  in  Jamaica,  instead  of  enlist- 
ing him  on  the  side  of  the  slave-holders,  made  him  join  in  the  philan- 
thropic labours  of  Clarkson  and  Wilberforce.  The  same  feeling 
made  him  in  his  writings  take  a  tone  that  would  hardly  be  expected 
in  a  government  official  towards  those  who  "  rose  in  dark  and  evil 
days  to  right  their  native  land." 

The  chief  facts  of  Dr.  Madden' s  life  are  his  books,  and  of  these 
by  far  the  most  original  and  the  most  important  is  his  "  lives  and 
Times  of  the  United  Irishmen."  Extraordinary  enthusiasm  for  his 
subject  was  needed  to  make  him  persevere  through  some  twenty 
years  in  amassing  the  materials  for  these  seven  octavo  volumes.  To 
take  one  example,  we  have  examined  the  pages  devoted  to  the  pathetic 
story  of  Sarah  Curran,  to  whom  attention  has  quite  lately  been 
directed  by  the  exquisite  poem,  "Emmet's  Love,"  which  is  placed 
first  among  Miss  Rosa  Mulholland's  "  Vagrant  Verses."  This  is  only 
one  brief  episode,  yet  to  clear  up  some  little  points  involved  in  it,  Dr. 
Madden  incurred  the  expense  and  fatigue  of  more  than  one  journey 
to  the  further  extremity  of  Ireland.* 

In  the  place  referred  to  we  have  enumerated  most  of  Dr.  Mad- 
den's  works.  The  first  of  his  publications  which  fell  into  our  hands  is 
omitted  in  all  lists  of  his  writings.  It  was  a  small  quarto  which  under 
the  name  of  "  An  Easter  Offering "  put  together  sundry  poems  of 
consolation  for  the  death  of  children,  the  finest  of  all  being  the  lines 
of  Mrs.  Browning  on  a  "  Child's  grave  at  Florence."  Dr.  Madden 
himself  figured  as  a  ;poet  in  his  little  volume,  which  was  indeed  a 
tribute  to  the  memory  of  a  son  whom  he  had  lost.  His  not  very 
ambitious  muse  may  here  be  represented  by  some  more  oheerf  ul  lines 
which  have  never  been  published  and  were  sent  as  "a  birthday 

*  It  is  hardly  known  sufficiently  that  Amelia  Oorran,  another  daughter  of 
our  great  Orator, 'became  a  Catholic.  A  painting  of  hers,  copied  from  Murillo, 
was  presented  by  the  second  Lord  Oloncurry  to  the  Catholic  Gfcvreh  of  Black- 
rock,  County  DuUro. 


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172  Richard  Robert  Madden. 

present  on  the  79th  anniversary  of  B.  K.  Madden's  first  appearance 
on  the  stage  of  life,  to  his  dear  son  Thomas  More  Madden :  20th 
August,  1877." 

"  Pity  the  sorrows  of  a  poor  old  man," 

In  the  year  "  '98  ".  whose  troubles  began ; 

Who  wandered  all  over  the  world,  and  yet 

To  scramble  up  stairs  is  now  quite  hard  set. 

To  Naples  from  Rome  in  five  days  he  had  walked ; 

In  Asia  o'er  deserts  on  camels  had  stalked ; 

On  African  coasts,  in  America  too, 

In  West  Indian  Islands  the  years  were  not  few ; 

He  battled  with  slave-trading  scoundrels,  and  warred 

With  slave-holding  tyrants,  whose  deeds  he  abhorred. 

But  now  all  his  powers  for  such  conflicts  are  gone, 

His  wand'ring  adventures  and  duties  are  done  ; 

Six  years'  anti-slavery  labours  are  en  ded, 

And  thirty  years  more  of  brain-toil  he  expended 

On  work  of  the  kind  that  is  called  literary, 

On  u  Travels  "  and  subjects  that  very  much  vary. 

With  gout  and  lumbago  tormenting  him  too, 

He  hardly  can  crawl,  his  poor  limbs  fail  him  so ; 

Yet  crutches  to  use  he  will  not  condescend ; 

He  hates  them  as  much  as  Sir  Dominick  his  friend. 


To  walk  from  the  Castle  to  Westland-row  Station 

Would  seem  to  him  now  a  vast  perambulation. 

The  Traveller,  in  short,  is  so  crippled  and  lame, 

So  wholly  done  up,  his  old  book-loving  game, 

Once  so  loved,  is  abandoned  :  you'll  meet  him  no  more 

At  auctions  or  stalls ;  all  his  visits  are  o'er 

To  the  rag-shops  in  Cook-street,  to  rummage  for  tracts 

And  pamphlets,  especially  treating  of  facts 

About  "  '98  "  and  "  The  Lives  and  the  Times  " 

Of  its  "  Boys  *  and  their  exploits,  call'd  commonly  crimes. 

Oppression  he  warred  with,  wherever  detected — 

Of  rulers  and  ruled  all  just  rights  he  protected. 

Wrongs  done  to  the  weak,  while  the  poor  man  was  strong, 

He'd  fight  against,  write  against,  all  the  day  long ; 

But  he'll  do  so  no  more  5  our  old  "  '98  Boy  " 

Has  no  energies  now  to  command  or  employ ; 

His  memory  fails  j  he  remembers  alone 

The  friends  he  once  loved,  whether  living  or  gone. 

So  of  poor  old  Ricardo  then  pity  the  ailings, 

And  "  blame  not  the  Bard  "  for  his  rhymes  or  his  failings. 


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Richard  Robert  Madden.  173 

The  old  man — who  had  still  eight  years  before  him,  and  who 
perhaps  expected  to  reach  the  ninety-three  years  of  his  father  before 
joining  him  in  the  family-vault  in  the  old  graveyard  of  Donnybrook — 
alludes  in  these  lines  to  his  love  of  old  books.  Seventeen  years  before 
he  had  dilated  on  this  master-passion  of  his  heart  in  another  un- 
published poem  to  which  he  prefixed  as  a  motto  the  inscription  of  the 
Guelf erbylanian  Library — wherever  that  may  be  found :  "  Quando 
omnes  loquuntur  et  deliberant,  optimum  a  mutis  et  mortuis  est  con- 
silium. Homines  quoque  si  taceant,  vocem  invenient  libri,  etquae 
nemo  dicit,  prudens  suggerit  antiquitas." 

I  must  confess  I  love  old  books  ! 

The  dearest,  too,  perhaps  most  dearly ; 
Thick,  clumpy  tomes,  of  antique  looks, 

In  pigskin  covers  fashioned  queerly ; 

Clasped,  chained,  or  thonged,  stamped  quaintly,  too, 

With  figures  wondrous  strange  of  holy 
Women  and  men,  and  cherubs,  few 

Might  oft  from  owls  distinguish  duly. 

I  love  black-letter  books,  that  saw 

The  light  of  day  at  least  three  hundred 
Long  years  ago ;  and  look  with  awe 

On  works  that  live,  so  often  plundered. 

love  the  sacred  dust,  the  more 
It  clings  to  ancient  lore,  enshrining 
Thoughts  of  the  dead  renowned  of  yore, 
Embalmed  in  books;  for  age  declining. 

Fit  solace,  food,  and  friends  most  sure 

To  have  around  one,  always  handy, 
When  sinking  spirits  find  no  cure 

In  news,  election  brawls,  or  brandy. 

In  these  old  books,  more  soothing  far 

Than  balm  of  Gilead  or  Nepenthd,   < 
I  seek  an  antidote  to  care — 

Of  which  most  men  indeed  have  plenty. 

"  Five  hundred  times  at  least,' *  I've  said — 

My  wife  assures  me — "    would  never 
Buy  more  old  books ; "  yet  lists  are  made, 

And  shelves  are  lumbered  more  than  ever 

Ah !  that  our  wives  could  only  see 

How  well  the  money  is  invested 
In  these  old  books,  which  seem  to  be 

By  them,  alas!  so  much  detested! 


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1?4  Btekmr*  Urieri  Madden. 

There's  nothing  hath  enduring  youth, 

Eternal  newness*  strength  unfailing,. 
Except  old  hooks,  old  friends,  old  truth, 

That's  ever  battling— still  prevailing. 

In  lands  like  this,  a  nation  once, 

Of  freedom  lost  and  prized  too  cheaply 

Let  no  man  speak! — we  must  renounce 
Such  themes,  and  in  old  books  dive  deeply. 

'Tis  better  in  the  past  to  live 

Than  grovel  in  the  present  vilely, 
In  clubs  and  cliques,  where  placemen  hive, 

And  faction  hums,  and  drones  rank  highly. 

To  be  enlightened,  counselled,  led, 

By  master  minds  of  former  ages, 
Come  to  old  books— consult  the  dead — 

Commune  with  silent  saints  and  sages. 

Dearly  beloved  old  pigskin  tomes  I 

Of  dingy  hue,  old  bookish  darlings! 
Oh,  cluster  ever  round  my  rooms, 
And  banish  strife,  disputes,  and  soar  n^s ! 

Space  fails  for  a  third  poem,  of  which  the  pious  sentiments  would 
afford  some  consolation  to  the  friends  who  are  in  mourning  for  thia 
good  and  gifted  man — better  consolation  than  the  full  obituaries  which 
hare  appeared  in  The  Times,  The  World,  and  the  chief  journals  of 
London  and  Dublin.  One  of  these  has  noticed  the  coincidence  that 
Dr.  Madden  was  bora  in  that  very  year  '98  which  was  to  be  the 
subject  of  his  most  interesting  work.  Like  the  death  of  John 
Cornelius  O'Callaghan,  author  of  " The  Green  Book"  and  historian 
of  the  Irish  Brigades,  his  departure  is  the  breaking  of  another  link 
with  the  past.  Many  things  have  happened  in,  Ireland  since  the  sad 
year  1798,  and  many  more  are  still  to  happen  before  the  coming  ronyd 
of  1898,  the  centenary  of  the  birth  of  Richard  Robert  Madden. 

MR. 


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(    175    ). 


BET'S  MATCH-MAKING. 

BY   ROSA    MULHOLLAND, 

AUTHOR  OF  "VAORAMT  VZBftES,"  ««  KILLSKVT,"  "MARCELLA  ORACB,"  ETC.,  ETC. 

THE  only  time  I  ever  tried  match-making  in  my  life  was  when 
I  was  seventeen,  and  I  then  so  burnt  my  fingers  over  the 
business  that  I  took  care  never  to  meddle  with  it  again.  I  was 
living  at  the  time  with  my  stepmother  on  her  farm  near  Bally- 
inena.  My  father  was  dead,  and  my  stepmother  did  not  like  me. 
She  had  placed  me  for  a  time  with  a  milliner  in  the  town,  but  find- 
ing it  expensive  supporting  me  apart  from  her,  had  taken  me  away 
again.  She  was  thinking  of  a  second  marriage,  though  I  did  not 
know  it  at  the  time.  But  this  I  did  know : — that  she  had  written 
to  some  distant  friends  of  my  father  in  America,  who  had  unwill- 
ingly consented  to  take  me  off  her  hands. 

I  don't  think  it  would  have  been  half  as  hard  for  me  to  have 
made  up  my  mind  to  die  ;  for  I  was  a  shy  little  thing,  without  a 
bit  of  courage  to  deal  with  strangers,  and  my  heart  was  fit  to  burst 
at  the  thought  of  leaving  the  very  few  friends  whom  I  had  to  love, 
and  my  own  little  corner  of  the  world,  where  the  trees  and  the 
roads  knew  me.  But  I  felt  it  would  have  to  be  done,  and  I  lay  * 
awake  all  night  after  the  letter  arrived,  trying  to  think  how  I 
should  ever  be  brave  enough  to  say  good-bye  to  my  dear  friend 
Gracie  Byrne,  and  to  Grade's  lover,  Donnell  M'Donnell. 

Gracie  was  the  cleverest  of  all  Miss  Doran's  apprentices.  She* 
was  an  orphan  without  a  friend  to  look  after  her,  and  she  was  the 
loveliest  girl  in  the  country.  People  said  she  was  proud  and  vain ; 
but  I  never  could  think  she  was  either.  She  and  I  loved  one 
another  dearly,  though  I  cannot  think  what  attracted  her  to  poor 
little  plain  me.  She  had  plenty  of  admirers,  and  she  queened  it 
finely  amongst  them  ;  but  the  only  one  to  whom  I  had  given  her 
with  all  my  heart  was  Donnell  M'Donnell.  And,  oh  dear !  he  was 
the  very  one  whom  she  would  not  look  at. 

Donnell  and  I  were  great  friends,  and  I  had  promised  to  do  all 
I  could  to  help  him  with  Gracie.  He  was  young  and  strong,  and 
as  bonny  a  man  as  could  be  seen.  He  had  a  fine  farm,  all  his  own, 
some  three  miles  across  country  from  my  stepmother's  place.  If 
Grade  would  but  marry  him,  she  might  live  like  a  lady,  and  drive 
Vol.  xiv.  No.  164.    April,  1886.  v r^nn}i> 

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176  Bet's  Match-making. 

into  Ba  lymena  on  her  own  jaunting-car.  But  she  was  always 
saying  that  she  would  go  away  to  London,  and  be  a  great  "  West- 
end  "  milliner.  This  terrified  me  badly,  seeing  that  London  is 
such  a  wicked  place. 

My  stepmother  was  always  crying  out  that  Gracie  would  come 
to  a  sorrowful  end,  which  made  me  wild ;  and  as  I  lay  awake  that 
wretched  night  I  thought  a  great  deal  about  what  might  happen 
to  her  if  she  went  away  to  London  by  herself,  and  she  so  hand- 
some, and  not  having  a  friend  at  all.  And  I  wished  with  all  my 
strength  that  she  would  marry  Donnell  M'Donnell  before  I  went 
away  to  America,  which  would  ease  my  mind  about  her,  and  also 
about  him.  For  I  felt  the  greatest  pity  in  the  world  for  kind  big 
DonnelTs  disappointment.  * 

My  stepmother  was  provoked  at  my  sad  face  next  day,  and 
called  me  ungrateful.  But  when  I  cried  bitterly  she  got  a  little 
kinder,  and  in  the  evening  allowed  me  to  go  into  Ballymena  to  see 
my  friend  Gracie.  So  towards  sundown,  when  the  snow  was 
getting  red  upon  the  fences,  I  wrapped  my  shawl  about  me  and 
set  off  for  the  town ;  sobbing  loudly  to  ease  my  heart,  all  along 
the  lonely  road,  where  there  was  no  one  to  hear  me  but  the  robins. 
The  brown  trees  against  the  dusky  red  sky,  the  white  swelling 
lines  of  the  fields,  the  dark  chimneys  of  the  town  on  before  me, 
were  all  blent  in  a  dismal  maze,  when  who  should  leap  over  a  stile 
and  stand  beside  me  but  Grade's  great  lover,  Donnell.  I  told  him 
my  eyes  were  only  watering  with  the  cold,  and  he  turned  and 
walked  alongside  of  me  for  a  good  way,  while  we  talked  of  Gracie 
of  course.  He  was  very  angry  at  her,  and  said  she  was  playing 
fast  and  loose  with  him,  and  making  him  the  sport  of  the  town  and 
country.  I  took  Gracie's  part,  and  so  we  went  on  till  we  came  to 
the  last  white  gate  on  the  road,  and  began  to  meet  the  townspeople. 
Then  I  told  him  I  was  going  away,  and  he  looked  so  vexed  that  I 
nearly  cried  again.     I  felt  so  glad  to  see  him  sorry. 

"  Well,  little  Bet,"  said  he,  "  we  must  give  you  a  good  dance 
over  in  yon  big  farm-house  of  ours  before  you  go.  And,  in  the 
meantime "    „ 

"  111  see  to  your  business,  Donnell,"  said  I,  smiling.  "  Never 
fear  but  I'll  do  your  business  to  the  last." 

Then  he  shook  my  two  hands  till  he  nearly  squeezed  them  into 
jelly,  and  left  me. 

When  I  went  into  Miss  Doran's  it  was  past  the  work  hour,  and 
the  girls  were  putting  on  their  bonnets  to  go  away ;  Gracie  only 
wfe  sitting  close  to  the  candle,  putting  the  flowers  on  a  ball-dress 

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Bef  8  Match-making.  177 

for  one  of  the  county  ladies.  She,  having  the  nicest  taste,  had 
always  the  honour  of  giving  the  finishing  touches  to  the  most 
particular  work.  She  looked  very  tired,  but  oh,  so  handsome, 
with  her  pale  cheek  against  the  yellow  light,  and  her  dark  head 
"bending  over  a  mass  of  white  and  rose-colour  tulle. 

"A. bud  here,"  said  she,  "and  spray  there,  and  then  I  have 
done.  You'll  come  home  with  me  and  sleep.  That  cross  step- 
mother of  yours  won't  see  you  again  to-night/' 

"  Don't  talk  that  way,  Grade,'*  said  I ;  "  but  I  came  intend- 
ing to  stay."  And  the  work  being  finished,  we  went  home  to  her 
lodging*. 

,  A  lovely  bunch  of  flowers  was  lying  on  her  table,  and  she 
laughed  and  blushed,  and  looked  beautiful  when  she  saw  it. 
\ "  Who  is  that  from,  Gra£<=i  P  "  said  I.     "  Donnell  P  " 

'  No,  indeed,"  said  she,  tossing  her  head.  But  I  was  sure  that 
a  fib,  for  she  looked  as  happy  as  possible,  resting  herself 
in  Jier  arm-chair  beside  the  fire,  while  I  set  out  the  tea-things. 
She  looked  so  glad,  and  the  shabby  room  looking  so  snug,  and  our 
littlf  tea-drinking  being  so  cozy,  I  could  not  bear  to  tell  her  the 
bad  pews  now,  and  began  to  set  about  Donnell's  business. 

T  Gracie,"  said  I,  "  I  wish  you  would  marry  Donnell  soon." 

+  SoonP"  said  she,  opening  her  eyes,  and  looking  at  me 
angily.     "  I'll  never  marry  him  ! " 

4  But  you  know,  Gracie,"  said  I,  getting  hot  about  it,  H  that 
jou  aught  to  marry  him.  He  says — that  is,  I  know — you  have 
mad*  him  the  laughing-stock  of  the  country,  and " 

"•Very  fine  !  "  cried  she.  "And  so  he  has  been  complaining 
to  yok,  has  he  P  " 

"L  did  not  say  that,*  said  I;  "but,  oh,  Gracie,  I  know  you 
like  atme  one.  I  saw  you  smiling  over  a  letter  the  other  day,  just 
the  my  you  are  smiling  now." 

"j^nd  what  if  I  doP"  said  she,  laughing  and  tossing  her 
head  £"  that  does  not  prove  that  it  must  be  Donnell." 

"^here  is  no  one  else  so  good,"  said  I,  eagerly.  "It  could 
not  beany  one  else." 

"  7on  my  word,"  said  she,  staring  at  me,  "  I  think  you  had 
•betterjfo  and  marry  him  yourself." 

"  I?  Oh,  Gracie ! "  said  I,  starting  up  and  sitting  down 
again,  ind  beginning  to  cry,  "  I  wanted  to  tell  you  that  I  am 
going  t>  America." 

Yoi  may  be  sure  we  talked  no  more  about  Donnell  that  night. 

Dotnell  did  not  fail  to  keep  his  word  about  giving  me  a  feast 

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178  Bet's  Match-making. 

before  I  left  the  country.  He  invited  three  pipers  to  play,  an<T 
half  the  country-side  to  dance.  Gracie  and  I  met  at  the  cross- 
roads, and  walked  over  to  the  farm  together,  she  bringing  a  troop 
of  beaux  with  her  from  the  town.  The  farm  is  a  dear  old  place* 
with  orchard-trees  growing  up  round  the  house,  and  it  looked  so 
homely  that  frosty  night.  Donnell's  mother  met  us  at  the  door, 
and  unpinned  our  shawls  in  her  own  room.  Gracie  looked  beauti- 
ful in  a  pretty  new  dress  and  bright  ribbon.  Donnell's  mother 
stroked  my  hair  with  her  hand,  and  stuck  a  bit  of  holly  in  tie 
front  of  my  black  frock.  She  kept  me  with  her,  after  Gracie  had 
gone  down  stairs,  holding  my  hand,  and  asking  me  about  ny 
going  to  America.  And  the  place  felt  so  safe  and  warm,  and  the 
was  so  kind  and  motherly,  after  what  I  was  accustomed  to  at  hone, 
that  my  heart  got  so  sore  I  could  scarcely  bear  it. 

We  had  a  great  tea-drinking  in  the  parlour,  and  then  we  vent 
oat  to  the  kitchen,  and  the  pipers  fell  to  work,  and  Gracie  wss  as 
amiable  as  possible  to  Donnell.  But  just  in  the  middle  of  our 
dancing  the  latch  of  our  back  door  was  lifted,  and  Squire  Haanan 
walked  in  in  his  top-boots. 

"  I  wanted  to  speak  to  you  on  business,  M'Donnell,"  he  said, 
H  but  I  shall  not  disturb  you  now." 

"  Will  you  do  us  the  honour  of  joining  us,  sir  P  "  said  Don- 
nell. Squire  Hannan  needed  no  second  invitation.  He  was  soon 
making  his  bow  before  Gracie,  and  Donnell  saw  no  more  d  her 
smiles  that  night.  She  danced  with  the  squire  till  it  was  tine  to 
go  home,  and  then,  after  she  had  set  out  for  the  town,  escorted  by 
him  and  her  other  beaux,  Donnell's  mother  kissed  me,  and  Dinneli 
drew  my  arm  through  his,  and  walked  home  with  me  acr$s  the 
snowy  fields  to  my  stepmother's  house.  He  was  abusing  ftracie 
all  the  way,  and  I  was,  as  usual,  taking  her  part. 

He  came  to  see  me  one  day  soon  after,  and  brought  me  abasket 
of  lovely  winter  pears.  He  leaned  against  the  wall  and  etched 
me  making  the  butter.  He  was  disgusted  with  Gracie,  hi  said ; 
she  was  a  flirt,  and  he  did  not  care  a  pin  about  her,  only  hd  would 
not  be  made  a  fool  of.  She  had  refused  to  let  him  walk  with  her 
across  the  hills  next  Sunday,  to  the  consecration  of  the  new  jhurch, 
and  if  he  did  not  get  some  token  that  she  had  changed  hej  mind 
between  that  and  this,  Le  would  never,  he  swore,  look  l£r  way 
again,  but  go  and  marry  some  one  else  for  spite. 

"  Oh  no,  Donnell/'  said  I,  "  promise  me  you  won't  dojthat !  '* 
For  I  was  sure  that  Gracie  liked  him  all  the  while. 


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Befs  Match-making.  179 

"But  I  will/1  said  he,  smiling ;  "  at  least,  if  other  people  wiU 
have  me/' 

"  Oh,  don't,  don't ! "  said  I ;  but  he  would  not  promise. 

•'It's  my  mind,"  said  my  stepmother,  after  he  had  gone, 
u  that  yon  lad's  more  like  a  lover  of  yours  than  hers.  Why  don't 
you  catch  him,  and  then  you  needn't  go  to  America." 

"  Mother ! "  I  cried,  and  felt  the  room  spinning  round  with  me, 
tOl  I  caught  and  held  on  by  the  door. 

"  "Well,  well,"  she  said,  "  you  needn't  look  so  mad.  Many  a 
girl  M  be  glad  of  him." 

I  thought  a  great  deal  about  how  he  had  sworn  that  he  would 
marry  some  one  else  if  he  did  not  hear  from  Gracie  before  Sunday. 
11  I'm  sure  she  likes  him,"  I  thought ;  "  she  cannot  help  it.  She 
must  have  seen  how  mean  even  Squire  Hannan  looked  beside  him 
the  other  night.  And  it  would  be  a  most  dreadful  thing  if  he  was 
married  to  some  one  he  did  not  care  about,  and  if  she  went  off  to 
London,  with  a  broken  heart,  to  be  a  '  West-end '  milliner."  I 
thought  about  it,  and  thought  about  it.  There  was  no  use  going 
to  Gracie,  for  she  would  only  laugh  and  mock  at  me.  All  at  once 
a  bright  idea  came  into  my  head. 

I  was  afraid  to  think  of  what  I  was  going  to  do ;  but  that 
night,  when  my  stepmother  had  gone  to  bed,  leaving  me  to  finish 
spinning  some  wool,  I  got  out  a  sheet  of  paper  and  a  little  note  of 
Gracie's  which  I  had  in  my  work-box,  and  began  to  imitate  Grade's 
handwriting.  I  had  not  much  trouble,  for  we  wrote  nearly  alike  ; 
and  afterwards  I  composed  a  little  letter. 

"  Dear  Mr.  M'Donnell,"  it  said,  "  I  have  changed  my  mind, 
and  will  be  very  glad  if  you  will  join  me  on  the  road  to  the  con- 
secration on  Sunday. 

"  Yours  sincerely, 

"Grace  Bykne." 

"  What  harm  can  it  do  to  send  it  P  "  thought  I,  trembling  all 
the  while.  I  folded  it  up,  and  put  it  in  an  envelope  directed  to 
Mr.  M'Donnell,  The  Buckey  Farm.  "  And  it  may  do  such  a  great 
deal  of  good !  In  the  first  place,  it  will  prevent  his  marrying  for 
spite  before  Sunday,  and  then  she  will  be  so  glad  to  see  him  coming, 
in  spite  of  her  crossness,  that  she  will  be  quite  kind  to  him.  He 
is  always  so  stiff  and  proud  when  she  treats  him  badly,  that  I  am 
sore  it  makes  her  worse.  She  will  never  find  out  that  he  got  a 
letter— not,  at  least,  till  they  are  quite  good  friends— married, 
perhaps— and  then  they  will  both  thank  me." 


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180  Bet* 8  Match-making. 

So  the  next  evening,  about  dusk,  I  slipped  quietly  into  the 
town  and  posted  my  letter.  I  was  dreadfully  afraid  of  meeting 
Donnell  or  Oracle  ;  but  I  saw  no  one  I  knew.  I  dropped  the  note 
in  the  letter-box  and  rushed  off  towards  home  again  at  full  speed. 
I  ran  nearly  all  the  way  ;  the  snowy  roads  were  slippery  in  the 
evening  frost,  and  near  our  house  I  fell  and  hurt  my  foot.  A 
neighbour  found  me  leaning  against  the  stile  and  brought  me 
home.  I  was  to  have  sailed  for  America  the  very  next  week,  but 
now  I  was  laid  up  with  a  sprained  ankle,  and  my  departure  was 
put  off. 

On  Sunday  evening,  a  neighbour  woman  who  had  been  at  the 
consecration  came  in  to  tell  us  the  news  :  This  one  had  been  there 
of  course,  and  that  one  had  been  there  for  a  wonder.  Gracie 
Byrne  had  been  there  in  a  fine  new  bonnet  (the  girl  was  going  to 
the  mischief  with  dress),  and  Squire  Hannan  had  been  there,  and 
given  her  the  flower  out  of  his  button-hole. 

"  And  Donnell  M'Donnell  was  with  her,  of  course  P  "  said  I. 

"  Ay,  'deed  you  may  swear  it,"  said  the  woman.  "  That'll  be 
a  match  before  long.  He  walked  home  with  her  to  the  town,  and 
her  smilin'  at  him  like  the  first  of  June !  " 

"  They'll  be  married  before  I  go  away,"  said  I  to  myself ;  and 
I  leaned  back  into  my  corner,  for  the  pain  of  my  foot  sickened  me. 

Donnell' e  mother  brought  me  a  custard  and  some  apples  the 
next  day. 

"  Donnell's  gone  to  the  Glens,  my  dear,"  said  she,  "  or  he 
would  ha'  been  over  this  mornin'  to  see  you.  He  went  before  we 
heard  of  your  foot,  and  he  won't  be  home  for  a  week." 

"  What's  he  doin'  there  P  "  asked  my  stepmother. 

"  He  has  land  there,  you  know,"  said  Donnell's  mother,  "  and 
he  goes  whiles  to  settle  his  affairs  with  them  that  has  charge  of  it. 
I  don't  know  rightly  what  he's  gone  about  now.  Something  has 
went  again  him  lately,  for  he's  not  like  himself  these  few  days 
back.  He  said  somethin'  about  goin'  to  be  married  when  he  came 
home,  but  if  he  is,  it's  not  afther  his  heart ;  for  I  never  saw  a 
bridegroom  so  glum  on  the  head  of  it  Bet,  dear,  I  thought  it 
was  you  he  liked." 

"  So  he  does,  Mrs.  M'Donnell,"  said  I,  "  but  not  that  way— 
not  for  his  wife." 

"  Well,  well,  my  dear  I  "  said  Donnell's  mother,  wiping  her 
eyes. 

Everybody  was  coming  to  see  me  now,  on  account  of  my  foot. 
Gracie  came  the  next  day  or  so,  and  surely  I  was  amazed  at  the 


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Bet1*  Match-making.  181 

glory  of  her  dress !  My  stepmother,  who  did  not  like  her,  left  us 
alone  together,  and  Grade's  news  came  out.  She  was  going  to  be 
married  on  next  Tuesday. 

"I  know  that,"  said  I. 

"  How  do  you  know  it  P  "  said  she. 

"  Donnell's  mother  told  me." 

"Donnell's  mother!  Nothing  but  Donnell  and  Donnell's 
mother  from  you  for  ever !    How  should  she  know  P  " 

"  Oh,  Gracie,  his  own " 

"  Why,"  she  burst  in,  "  you  don't  imagine  that  he's  the  man  P 
Why,  it's  Squire  Hannan !  Only  think,  Bet,  of  your  Gracie 
being  the  Squire's  lady !  " 

I  was  quite  confounded.     "  Oh,  oh,  Gracie !  "  I  stammered. 

"  Well,"  said  she,  sulking,  "  are  you  not  glad  P  " 

"Oh  yes,"  I  said,  "very,  on  your  account;  but  what  will 
become  of  Donnell  P  " 

"  Donnell  again !  Now  listen  to  me,  Bet.  I  know  when  a 
man  likes  me,  and  when  he  doesn't  like,  just  as  well  as  any  other 
girl ;  and  I've  seen  this  many  a  day,  that  Donnell  didn't  care  a 
pin  about  me.  Not  he.  He  only  wanted  me  to  marry  him  that 
the  people  might  not  say  I  jilted  him.  I  told  him  that  the  other 
day,  when  he  asked  me  to  have  him.  '  No  matter  what  I  want 
you  for/  said  he ;  *  I  want  you/  *  Thank  you,'  said  I.  And  then 
what  had  he  the  impudence  to  say  !  If  I  changed  my  mind  before 
Sunday  I  was  to  send  him  word,  that  he  might  come  to  the  con- 
secration with  me.  Then  he  would  set  off  for  the  Glens  on 
Monday,  and  settle  some  business  there,  and  be  home  for  our 
wedding  in  a  week !  " 

I  screamed  out,  seeing  what  I  had  done. 
.    "  The  poor  foot ! "  cried  Gracie,  thinking  I  was  in  pain.     "  Is 
it  bad?" 

"  Never  mind  it ! "  said  I.     "  And  what  did  you  say  P  " 

"  I  said,"  Grade  went  on,  "  that  whatever  morning  he  got  up 
■and  saw  black  snow  on  the  ground,  that  day  he  might  look  for  a 
message  from  me.  And  yet  he  had  the  meanness  to  walk  with  me 
on  Sunday,  after  all.  And  the  best  fun  of  it  is,  they  say  he's 
gone  to  the  Glens." 

"  Oh,  oh  ! "  said  I,  beginning  to  groan  again,  and  pretending 
it  was  all  my  foot.  After  that,  Grace  talked  about  herself  and 
Squire  Hannan  until  she  went  away.  And  somehow  I  never  had 
felt  as  little  sorry  to  part  with  her  before.  She  seemed  not  to  be 
my  own  Gracie  any  longer. 

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182  Bet's  Match-making. 

And  now  I  was  nearly  out  of  my  senses,  thinking  what  mis- 
chief might  come  of  my  meddling.  I  was  sure  that  Donnell 
and  Squire  Hannan  would  fight  and  kill  one  another,  and  all 
through  me.  I  thought  I  would  give  all  I  had  in  the  world  to  see 
Donnell  before  any  one  else  had  told  him  the  news,  and  confess  to 
him  what  I  had  done.  On  Tuesday,  about  mid-day,  a  countryman 
from  the  Glen  came  in  to  light  his  pipe,  and  he  said  he  had  passed 
M'Donnell,  of  Buckey  Farm,  on  the  way. 

"  An'  I  think  things  must  be  goin  badly  with  him,"  said  he* 
"  for  he  has  a  look  on  his  face  as  black  as  the  potato  blight.'9 

"  Somebody  has  told  him,  maybe  !  "  said  I  to  myself.  And  I 
put  on  my  shawl,  and,  borrowing  a  stick  from  an  old  neighbour,  I 
hobbled  off  secretly  up  the  road  towards  the  Glens.  I  soon  got 
tired  and  dreadfully  cold,  as  I  could  not  walk  fast,  and  I  sat  down 
on  a  bit  of  an  old  grey  bridge  to  walbh  for  Donnell  coming  past. 
At  last  he  came  thundering  along,  and  although  it  was  getting 
dusk  I  could  see  that  he  had  his  head  down,  and  looked  dreadfully 
dark  and  unhappy. 

"  Donnell !  "  said  I,  calling  out  to  him. 

"  Who's  that  ?  "  he  said.     "  Why,  it's  never  little  Bet !  " 

"  But  indeed  it  is,"  said  I.  "  Ah,  Donnell,  did  you  hear  P  I 
came  to  tell  you.  Gracie  was  married  this  morning  to  Squire 
Hannan." 

"  Whew  !  "  he  gave  a  long  whistle.  "  The  jilt !  "  said  he, 
snapping  his  fingers.     But  his  whole  face  brightened  up. 

"  She's  not  so  much  a  jilt  as  you  think,  Donnell,'*  said  I,  "  for 
— oh,  how  can  I  ever  tell  you  ! — it  was  I*  who  wrote  you  the  note 
you  got  last  week,  and  she  had  nothing  to  do  with  it.  I  did  itior 
the  best,  I  did  indeed,  for  I  thought  that  Gracie  liked  you ;  I  did 
indeed !  And  oh,  Donnell,  sure  you  won't  go  and  kill  Squire 
Hannan?" 

"  Won't  I,"  said  he,  looking  awfully  savage.  "  I  cut  a  great 
blackthorn  this  morning  in  the  Glens  for  no  other  purpose  but  to 
beat  out  his  brains." 

I  gave  a  great  scream,  and,  dropping  my  stick,  fell  along  with 
it ;  but  Donnell  picked  me  up,  and  set  me  safe  on  his  horse  behind 
him. 

"Now,"  said  he,  "I'll  tell  you  what  it  is,  little  Bet.  I'll 
make  a  bargain.  You'll  marry  me,  and  I  won't  touch  Squire 
Hannan." 

"  I  marry  you  P  "  cried  I,  "  after — after  Gracie.  Indeed  I  will 
not,  Donnell  M'Donnell." 


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The  Bishop  of  Down.  183 

"I've  behaved  badly,"  said  be,  "but  I'm  very  sorry.  It's 
long  since  I  liked  you  better  than  Qracie,  but  the  devil  of  pride 
was  in  me,  and  the  people  were  saying  she  would  jilt  me.  When 
I  got  your  bit  of  a  note,  I  felt  as  if  I  was  goin*  to  be  hung.  God 
bless  Squire  Hannan  I    Now  will  you  marry  me,  little  Bet  P  " 

"  No/'  said  I.  And  with  that  he  whipped  up  his  horse,  and 
dashed  off  with  me  at  the  speed  of  a  hunt. 

"  Stop,  stop !  "  cried  I.  (i  Where  are  you  taking  me  to  P 
You've  passed  the  turn  of  ourToad." 

But  I  might  as  well  shout  to  the  wind.  On  we  dashed,  up 
hill  and  down  hill,  through  fields  and  through  bogs,  with  the 
hedges  running  along  by  our  side,  and  the  moon  whizzing  past  us 
among  the  bare  branches  of  the  trees.  He  never  drew  rein  till 
the  horse  stopped  at  the  dear  Buckey  Farm-house  door,  when  he 
•carried  me  straight  into  the  bright  warm  kitchen  where  his  mother 
had  the  tea  set  out,  and  the  cakes  smoking  ready  for  his  return. 

"  Talk  her  into  reason,"  said  he,  putting  me  into  his  mother's 
arms.     "  I  want  her  to  marry  me,  and  she  says  she  won't." 

I  did  my  best  to  keep  sulky  for  a  proper  length  of  time,  but  it 
was  the  hardest  thing  I  ever  tried  to  do,  and  they  both  so  kind, 
and  the  place  so  bright  and  cozy,  and  I  being  so  happy 
all  the  time !  So  the  end  of  it  was  that  I  did  not  go  to  America, 
and  that  I  am  Mrs.  M'Donnell  of  the  Buckey  Farm.  But  I 
-never  tried  match-making  again. 


THE  BISHOP  OF  DOWN. 

BY    ALKXANDBB    BARK1N,    M.D. 

ON  the  grey  morn  of  a  Noyember  day, 
Ere  the  loud  chimes  had  toll'd  the  hour  of  seven, 
Stretched  on  hie  bier,  the  patriot  Prelate  lay, 
His  body  to  the  earth,  his  soul  resigned  to  heaven. 
Hushed  were  those  lips  to  meek  devotion  given, 
And  many  a  homily  on  grace  and  prayer, 

And  still  that  hand  which  seemingly  had  striven 
To  pardon  and  to  bless  the  sinner  there, 
All  through  that  live- long  night  till  breathed  the  morning  air. 


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184  The  Bishop  of  Down. 

Robed  in  the  purple,  Tested  with  the  stole, 

Id  the  tribunal  where  he  loved  to  be, 
As  Qod's  vicegerent  with  the  contrite  soul, 

The  mandate  reached  him,  "  Patrick,  oome  to  me ! 

Well  hast  thou  done  the  work  assigned  to  thee, 
Thy  peril's  past,  thy  years  of  labour  o'er. 

Thy  Patron  Saint  hath  longed  this  day  to  see,* 
With  thee  his  feet  to  keep,  his  God  adore, 
And  loud  Hosannas  sing  with  tbee  for  evermore !  " 

Galled  by  the  Sovereign  Pontiff  to  his  aid, 

In  a  great  crisis  of  our  country's  fate, 
No  friendly  counsel  could  his  steps  dissuade, 

Nor  from  his  purpose  make  him  hesitate. 

Despite  his  age  and  his  enfeebled  state, 
Steadfast  his  solemn  duties  to  fulfil, 

No  toil  of  travel  did  his  zeal  abate ; 
Feeble  of  body,  but  robust  of  will, 
Dared  the  Sirocco's  breath  and  the  Mar  em  ma's  chill. 

But  soon  by  grave  anxieties  oppressed, 

Protected  councils  an£  mephitic  air, 
Upon  the  bed  of  sickness  he  was  cast, 

And  death  approached  and  poised  his  javelin  there, 

But  he  was  rescued  by  the  might  of  prayer : 
And,  as  St.  Patrick,  feeling  death  at  hand 

In  the  Primatial  See,  did  then  prepare  ; 
Did  from  the  Angel  Victor  understand 
Not  at  Armagh  he'd  die,  but  Saul  in  Dicho's  land. 

Not  in  the  Holy  City,  not  in  Rome, 

Were  our  great  Prelate's  obsequies  to  be, 
But  to  his  native  country,  to  his  home, 

Was  be  to  journey  by  divine  decree, 

And  once  more  have  the  privilege  to  see 
His  faithful  people  welcome  his  return 

With  gratulation  and  festivity. 
His  ashes  soon  with  solemn  rites  were  borne 
To  Patrick's  Church,  at  once  his  monument  and  urn. 

His  was  a  life  of  labour  and  of  prayer, 

That  for  God's  glory  had  untiring  striven ; 
Of  apostolic  fervour,  faltering  ne'er, 

No  wish  for  life  if  not  to  duty  given, 

No  hope  for  rest  but  in  the  courts  of  heaven. 
When  warned,  his  active  life  he  must  forego, 

From  sacerdotal  work  he  must  be  riven, 
He  meekly  answered,  "  Lord,  if  it  be  so, 
Then,  if  I  may  not  labour,  Father,  let  me  go  1 " 

*  Dr.  Patrick  Dorrian,  Bishop  of  Down  and  Connor,  died  on  the  Feast  of  St* 
Malachy,  Patron  of  the  Diocese,  November  3,  1883.  He  was  born  at  Ifowii- 
patrick  in  1814,  ordained  priest  in  1837,  and  consecrated  bishop  in  I860. 


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(    18ft    ) 


AUGUSTUS    LAW,    S.J. 

Notes  in  Remembrance. 

By  the  Editor. 

TWICE,  and  twice  only,  it  has  been  my  privilege  to  live- 
for  a  year  or  two  under  the  same  roof  with  persons  whose 
"  Life  "  has  been  thought  worth  writing ;  and  it  happens  that 
both  the  Frenchman  and  the  Englishman  might  be  described  by 
the  phrase  on  the  French  title-page — "  Marin  et  Jesuite."  Both 
of  my  friends  graduated  in  the  navy  before  entering  the  Society 
of  Jesus. 

Of  Alexis  Clerc,  shot  as  a  hostage  by  the  Commune  when 
Paris  was  taken  by  the  Prussians,  some  account  was  given  in  our 
eighth  volume  (pp.  271,  &c.)  Augustus  Law's  father  has  devoted 
three  small  volumes  to  his  memory,  besides  a  fourth  volume  of  his 
meditation-notes  which  is  not  given  to  the  public  like  the  other 
volumes.  Let  us  see  how  much  of  these  letters  and  notes  we  can 
weave  into  a  brief  sketch  along  with  our  own  recollection  of  our 
saintly  and  amiable  brother. 

"  Law "  is  a  very  appropriate  name  for  a  lawyer,  and  two 
eminent  lawyers  have  borne  it  in  this  century.  In  Ireland  Hugh 
Law  was  the  immediate  predecessor  of  Lord  Chancellor  Naish, 
who  has  just  entered  for  the  second  time  on  his  high  office ;  and 
eighty  years  ago  Edward  Law  was  Lord  Chief  Justice  of  the- 
King's  Bench  in  England.  He  was  created  the  first  Lord  Ellen- 
borough,  and  in  the  House  of  Lords  in  1805  he  strenuously 
opposed  all  concessions  to  the  Roman  Catholics.  One  of  his  sons, 
the  Hon.  William  Towry  Law,  served  in  the  army  from  1826  ta 
1831,  when  he  married  Augusta,  daughter  of  the  second  Lord 

Graves,  took  out  his  M.A.  degree  at  Cambridge,  a~*  1 

minister  of  the  Established  Church,  reaching  prettj 
dignity  of  Chancellor  of  Bath  and  Wells.  Why  h 
went  no  further  we  shall  see  presently. 

Augustus  Law  was  born  on  October  21st,  1883,  at 
ton.  a  village  near  Cambridge.  He  the  eldest  and 
youngest  of  eight  children  were  evidently  named 
mother.    She  died  when  he  was  just  eleven  years  ol 


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186  Augustus  Law,  B.J. 

letter — for  these  memoirs  are  built  tip  out  of  letters  with  only  a 
very  scanty  grouting  of  explanations  and  of  names  and  other 
remarks — the  earliest  of  the  letters  printed  here  with  hardly  any 
omissions  and  no  alterations  is  dated  from  Somerton  School  two  or 
three  weeks  after  the  funeral.  "  I  have  just  counted,  and  I  have 
had  exactly  thirty-seven  letters  from  dear  mamma.  I  have  not 
lost  one."  He  mentions  that  the  first  was  when  he  was  six  years 
old— which  to  the  boy  of  eleven  seemed  so  long  ago.  He  little 
thought  that  the  childish  affectionate  letter  he  was  then  writing 
would  be  preserved  and  printed  forty  years  later.  And  not  his 
own  letters  only.  The  next  is  from  his  uncle,  Henry  Law,  who 
had  no  notion  of  what  we  call  in  Ireland  by  the  beautiful  name  of 
Month's  Mind,  but  who,  when  the  little  boy's  mother  was  exactly 
a  month  dead,  writes  to  him :  "  Your  poor  little  baby  sister  is 
quite  well  and  would  send  her  love  to  you  if  she  could  speak. 
Oood-bye,  my  dear  boy.  Never  forget  your  poor  mother,  and 
always  do  whatever  you  think  would  have  given  her  pleasure." 

Cardinal  Newman,  after  reading  the  first  of  these  three  volumes 
{which  were  published  separately  at  intervals  of  a  year  or  so), 
wrote  to  Mr.  Law:  "Thank  you  for  your  most  interesting 
Memorials  of  your  son.  There  is  not  a  word  too  much  in  them, 
as  you  fear.  It  is  a  favour  we  are  not  often  given  to  be  able  to 
follow  year  by  year  the  formation  of  a  saintly  mind.  How  God 
has  blessed  you  in  giving  you  such  a  son  1  It  is  a  consolation  for 
much  suffering,  and  a  sort  of  pledge  of  other  mercies  yet  to  come.1' 
We  quote  these  words  here,  for  they  justify  Mr.  Law's  plan  of 
giving  not  merely  such  edifying  things  as  the  meditation  on  the 
judgment  at  page  9  (wonderful  for  a  little  lad  of  less  than  twelve 
years)  but  also  on  the  opposite  page  a  completely  childish  letter 
of  the  same  date,  with  such  short,  clear,  jerky,  unperiodic  sentences 
as  "  My  dear  papa,  I  have  not  much  to  say.  The  new  usher  is 
coming  here  on  Monday.  I  began  the  Second  Book  of  Euclid  on 
Wednesday.  I  hope  Twit  [his  sister]  is  very  well.  Give  my  love 
to  all.  Easter  is  very  early  this  year  " —  and  a  few  more  indepen- 
dent statements  of  this  kind,  ending  with  the  injunction,  "  mind, 
write  to  me  soon." 

In  January,  1846,  Augustus's  father  married  Matilda,  the 
second  daughter  of  the  first  Sir  Henry  Montgomery,  Baronet,  of 
Donegal,  who,  in  spite  of  her  Christian  name,  is  the  "  dearest 
May "  that  plays  so  important  and  so  attractive  a  part  through 
all  the  rest  of  these  memorials.  Seventeen  years  later  Augustus 
writes  to  his  father  on  the  1st  of  January,  1863  : 


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Augustus  Law,  8.  J.  187 

"Deabist  Fatheb— Happy  New  Year  to  dearest  May  and  all  at  home, 
I  was  just  thinking  the  other  day  how  much  all  of  us  eight,  from  Helen  to 
Augusta,  owe  to  dearest  May's  motherly  kindness.  The  thought  occurred 
on  thinking  that. Augusta  was  the  last  of  the  eight  and  had  married.  Do 
thank  dearest  May,  in  the  name  of  us  all,  for  her  tenderness  and  kindness  to 
us  alL    Ever  your  most  affectionate  son, 

•'Augustus  H.  Law/' 

The  Earl  of  Ellenborough,  who  had  been  a  very  distinguished 
Governor- General  of  India,  was  First  Lord  of  the  Admiralty  in 
1846,  and  in  February  he  wrote  to  his  brother:  "My  dear 
William,  why  should  you  not  make  that  fine  eldest  boy  of  yours  a 
midshipman  P  He  is  old  enough,  and  there  are  a  good  many  to  be 
appointed  at  once,  so  that  he  could  go  to  sea  immediately."  The 
letters  which  passed  between  father  and  son  on  this  occasion  are 
all  given,  and  the  letter  also  of  a  friend  whom  Augustus  consulted. 
Strange  that  they  should  all  be  preserved  so  carefully,  but  this 
wonder  follows  us  all  through  these  simple  memoirs.  The  little 
lad  had  thought  of  being  what  his  father  was,  but  he  ended  by 
saying :  "  will  you  thank  Lord  EUenborough  for  me,  for  giving 
me  such  a  jolly  chance  P  "  and  Lord  Ellenborough  in  turn  tells 
his  "  dear  William : "  "lam  much  pleased  with  your  boy's  readi- 
ness to  serve  afloat " — while  the  good  parson,  in  his  next  letter, 
calls  him  his  dearest  sailor  boy.  Both  the  correspondence  at  this 
crisis  and  the  letters  given  on  other  occasions  leave  on  the  reader's 
mind  the  most  amiable  impressions  not  only  of  the  two  or  three 
whom  we  name  so  frequently  but  also  of  others  who  are  only 
quoted  incidentally.  They  gave  the  young  cadet  of  thirteen  years 
more  substantial  marks  of  kindness  than  this  good  advice  of  the 
Rev.  William  Newbolt :  "Now,  mind  you  are  a  good  boy  and  be 
a  comfort  to  your  father  and  a  credit  to  the  service,  and  I  should 
not  be  surprised  if  I  should  live  to  see  you  ushered  in,  one  day, 
to  the  Vicarage  of  Somerton,  as  Sir  Augustus  H.  Law,  K.C.B., 
Vice- Admiral  of  the  Red.  Do  what  you  can  to  make  my  pro- 
phecy come  true,  and  one  step  towards  it  will  be  to  act  up  to  the 
advice  contained  in  the  little  book  I  gave  you  the  last  night  I  saw 
you  at  Somerton."  The  brave  little  boy,  going  away  from  such 
loving  friends,  to  be  tossed  about  for  an  indefinite  period  on  the 
homeless  waves,  keeps  up  his  heart  stoutly,  or  pretends  to  do  so, 
ending  his  first  letter  from  shipboard:  " Write  to  me  soon. 
Hurrah !  Best  love  to  all."  And  his  next  letter  ends :  "  Please 
God,  we  shall  meet  again  all  happy  together.    God  bless  you  all/' 

There  is  hardly  one  of  these  simple,  unaffected,  affectionate 
Vol.  xiv.  No.  164.  ^  15 

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188  Augustus  Law,  8.  J. 

letters  from  which  we  should  not  wish  to  quote  at  least  a  phrase 
or  two ;  but  we  have  as  yet  made  very  little  way  in  our  story,  and 
it  is  best  to  hurry  on.  At  an  age  when  an  aunt  who  sees  him  at 
Madeira,  speaks  of  being  "delighted  with  the  little  fellow,  the 
nicest  child  she  ever  saw/1  he  is  able  to  speak  in  this  manly  way 
of  the  prospect  of  several  years'  absence.  "  I  have  been  three 
months  now  in  Her  Majesty's  Service,  and  I  must  say  I  like  the 
navy  very  much.  I  don't  think  there's  any  one  in  the  ship 
happier  than  me ;  and  I  hope  some  day  (D.V.),  in  about  three  or 
four  years'  time,  I  may  be  safe  on  old  England's  shores  again."  A 
month  later  the  chaplain  writes  to  his  father :  "  Mr.  Augustus 
Law  promises  to  be  an  ornament  to  his  profession,  and  has  evinced 
even  in  this  short  time  a  great  desire  to  obtain  a  perfect  knowledge 
of  the  nautical  part  of  his  education,  and  by  his  amiable  and 
affectionate  disposition  he  has  won  the  esteem  and  regard  of  all 
the  officers  in  the  frigate."  Lord  Ellenborough,  in  returning  a 
long  letter  Augustus  had  sent  home  from  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope, 
congratulated  his  brother  on  having  such  a  son.  "  It  is  as  agree- 
able a  letter  as  a  father  could  receive :  it  is  the  sort  of  letter  the 
Duke  would  have  written  at  thirteen,  and  as  good  a  one  as  Nelson 
could  have  written  at  any  time.  You  see  I  have  no  overweening 
respect  for  the  nautical  hero.  I  should  be  sorry  to  think  that  the 
navy  had  not  a  hundred  Nelsons  at  all  times,  and  I  should  be  too 
happy  if  I  could  think  that  I  should  ever  see  another  Wellington." 

In  a  long  letter  home  from  Valparaiso,  telling* of  his  experiences 
on  board  and  at  Sydney  (which  he  liked)  and  New  Zealand  (which 
he  didn't),  he  notes  a  very  interesting  date :  "  October  21st.  It 
ismy  birthday  to-day — thirteen  years  old."  Brave  little  fellow !  He 
shows  that  he  remembers  other  birthdays  besides  his  own,  though 
still  some  months  ahead :  "  Tell  Graves  I  shall  drink  his  health 
on  December  4th,  and  Franky's  too,  on  January  9th."  Yet  it  is 
just  at  this  date,  or  a  couple  of  months  later,  that  his  uncle  "  the 
Peer  "  calls  him  a  "  young  man,"  and  gives  him  this  stern,  pro- 
fessional fillip :  "  I  hope  you  may  have  the  good  luck  to  be  under 
fire  before  you  come  home.  The  wind  of  a  shot  is  better  for  a 
young  man's  face  than  rose-water.  You  will  feel  yourself  to  be  a 
man  when  you  have  heard  them  whistling  by  you.  It  is  a  new 
pleasure,  and  I  hope  you  will  be  worthy  of  it ;  indeed  I  know  you 
will."  Aye,  all  very  well  to  hear  them  whistling  by  you ;  but 
what  if  they  took  to  whistling  through  youP 

Under  the  date  of  August  25th,  1847,  occurs  abruptly  a  very 
curious  sentence  that  bears  upon  the  politics  of  the  present  time. 


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Augustus  Late,  8.J.  189 

The  sentence  which  precedes  it  is,  "Helen  must  play  her  duets  for 
me  when  I  come  home,  and  Twit,  too ; "  and  the  sentence  which 
follows,  it  is  equally  innocent,  and  there  is  no  justification  in  the 
context  for  this  declaxtttibn  on  Home  Rule :  "  What  is  the  good  of 
Englnpd  holding  on  to  Ireland  and  spending  so  much  money  on 
it  P  But  I  suppose  the  French  would  prig  the  island  directly 
then." 

Critics  are  said  to  be  authors  who  have  failed.  "What  we  have 
set  down  up  to  this  goes  far  to  prove  that,  if  Augustus  Law  can 
be  described,  like  Alexis  Clerc,  as  "  marin  et  J^suite,"  he  did  not 
take  up  with  the  second  vocation  merely  because  he  had  failed  in 
the  first.  But  we  are  still  very  far  from  the  transition  point,  and  we 
must,  as  the  young  middy  would  say,  put  on  more  steam.  Towards 
the  end  of  November,  1847,  Augustus  began  a  letter  with  an 
announcement,  the  more  joyful  because  unexpected :  "  I  cannot 
express  my  joy,  you  will  hardly  believe  what  I  say — the  '  Carysf  ort ' 
is  homeward  bound  ! !  I !     Hurrah  ! !     Hurrah !  ! !  " 

The  meeting  and  the  doings  at  home  during  the  five  or  six 
weeks  of  holidays,  we  leave  to  the  imagination  of  the  sympathetic 
reader  who  will  kindly  suppose  the  midshipman  started  on  his 
second  voyage  in  H.  M.  S.  Hastings,  from  which  his  first  despatch 
announces  that  "  I  am  all  right  now — of  course  I  was  down  in  the 
mouth  at  first ;  "  and  administers  subtle  flattery  to  his  father  by 
mentioning  that  "some  of  the  fellows  asked  me  whether  that 
young  fellow  with  the  red  whiskers  was  not  my  brother,  ha !  ha !  " 
The  15th  of  August,  1848,  was  not  for  him  the  Feast  of  the 
Assumption,  but  his  fifth  time  for  crossing  the  Line,  before  his 
fifteenth  birthday.  The  diary  of  his  second  term  of  naval  service 
shows  that  his  heart  was  not  hardening  as  he  grew  older.  It  is 
full  of  little  touches  of  the  tenderest  home-affections.  Not  only 
does  he  note  that  October  5th  is  his  sister  Augusta's  birthday,  but 
on  October  27-  we  read  that,  "  this  day  six  months  ago  was  my 
dear  sister  Helen's  birthday."  Let  us  be  guilty  of  a  gross  anach- 
ronism by  mentioning  that  Helen  is  now  Sister  Mary  Walburga, 
in  the  Convent  of  Mercy,  Bermondsey,  and  that  another  sister, 
who  in  these  letters  is  never  called  Maude,  but  generally  "  dearest 
old  Twit,"  is  now  a  Visitation  Nun  at  Westbury.  Writing  from 
Hong-Kong  on  the  27th  of  January,  1849,  the  wanderer,  who 
evidently  "  drags  at  each  remove  a  lengthening  chain  "  and  who 
ends  his  letter  with  the  prayer  "  may  God  preserve  us  all  to  meet 
again  in  three  years'  time  all  well !  "  not  only  speaks  of  "  dearest 
old  Twit"   but  of   "dearest  old  May" — namely  the  excellent 


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190  Augustus  Late,  S.J. 

lady  of  whom  he  subscribes  himself  in  good  faith  the  "  affectionate 
son-in-law/1  Already  he  had  the  habit  of  using  this  disagreeable 
epithet  "  old  "  as  a  term  of  endearment,  just  as  twenty  years  later 
he  would  playfully  apostrophise  "  le  vieux  Causs£que."  But  while 
thus  grateful  to  the  second  mother,  who  made  even  the  ugly  word 
"  mar&tre  "  amiable,  the  young  lad  does  not  forget  to  chronicle 
October  16,  1849,  as  "  the  anniversary  of  my  dear  mother's  death 
live  years  ago,"  and  he  writes  on  the  same  page  the  words  which 
on  her  deathbed  she  told  him  ever  to  remember,  "  Thou  God  seest 
me  "  and  the  number  of  the  psalm  she  asked  to  be  read  to  her, 
our  102nd  psalm :  "  Bless  the  Lord,  0  my  soul,  and  let  all  that  is 
within  me  praise  His  holy  name." 

The  phrases  that  we  have  .quoted  here  and  there  from  these 
letters  and  memoirs  have  for  the  most  part  aimed  at  proving  two 
points — how  good  a  son  and  brother  Augustus  Law  was,  and  how 
good  a  sailor.  On  the  latter  point  we  have  Sir  Henry  Montgomery, 
writing  from  Madras,  in  August,  1849,  to  his  sister,  the  Hon.  Mrs. 
W.  T.  Law :  "  We  were  very  much  pleased  with  Augustus.  Indeed 
I  never  saw  so  well-disposed  a  boy.  He  bears  the  highest  charac- 
ter possible  from  his  shipmates,  and  Lora  will  send  you  the  Com- 
modore's note  about  him."  And  Commodore  Plumridge,  in  the 
note  referred  to,  says :  "  He  eeems  a  fine  lad,  and  I  hear  be  has  a 
well-regulated  mind;  indeed  the  Admiral  told  me  he  was  the 
flower  of  his  flock." 

On  the  other  point  a  few  last  words  may  be  cited  from  the 
diary  for  February,  1850  :  u  How  thankful  I  ought  to  be  to  God 
for  His  blessings,  in  having  given  me  such  a  dear  father,  step- 
mother, and  brothers  and  sisters,  and  may  my  constant  prayer  be 
that  I  may  be  more  thankful  to  God  for  His  blessings,  and  also 
show  it  by  following  His  blessed  Will  in  all  things  that  I  do." 
Another  conclusion  may  well  be  drawn  from  our  quotations — 
namely,  how  expedient  it  is  for  mothers  and  sisters  and  others  at 
home  to  pursue  with  a  ceaseless,  affectionate  correspondence  the 
exiles  of  the  household,  whom  various  circumstances  may  banish 
to  the  ends  of  the  earth.  Ah!  dear  stay-at-homes,  keep  the 
wanderers  constantly  in  mind  of  the  lovingness  and  holiness  of 
home. 

Before  passing  on  to  the  second  part  of  Augustus  Law's  life, 
on  account  of  which  the  preceding  part  has  been  described,  it  ia 
well  to  notice  that  in  all  these  letters  and  private  journals  there  ia 
not  the  slightest  grumbling  about  bad  food,  want  of  sleep*  or  any 
other  hardship.    No  doubt  such  things  are  better  managed  in  Her 


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Augustus  Law,  8.  J.  191 

Majesty's  ships  than  in  ordinary  merchant  vessels ;  but  certainly 
Augustus's  breakfast  and  dinner  at  sea  were  very  different  from  the 
same  institutions  in  Harborne  Vicarage.  Making  due  allowance  for 
the  superiority  of  the  Royal  Navy,  it  will  not  be  irrelevant  to  give 
my  notes  of  a  conversation  with  a  young  gentleman  after  his  first 
voyage.  From  early  boyhood  ships  had  a  fascination  for  him ;  he 
haunted  the  docks,  climbed  the  masts,  proved  that  the  sea  was  his 
vocation,  and  finally  extorted  his  parents9  reluctant  consent.  I 
questioned  him  as  to  his  first  experience  of  a  life  at  sea.  He  said 
that  Dana's  "  Two  Years  before  the  Mast "  is  a  genuine  picture  of 
sailor-life,  but  that  "  tarry  novels "  in  general  are  outrageously 
untrue  to  facts.  T.B.  was  an  "  apprentice  "  in  a  big  ship,  JBianca, 
from  London  to  Calcutta  and  from  Calcutta  to  New  York.  Appren- 
tices have  not  to  work  at  the  wheel  [steering]  which  is  not  the 
hardest  work,  but  brings  you  in  for  a  good  deal  of  cursing  from  the 
captain,  &c.  Once,  in  bad  weather  the  captain  sent  T.  B.  up  four 
times  to  do  better  the  reefing  of  a  certain  sail.  He  was  so  exhausted 
that  he  had  to  rest  several  minutes  above  before  venturing  to 
descend.  They  have  never  more  than  four  hours'  sleep  at  a  time. 
He  never  once  got  up  thoroughly  refreshed.  When  off  duty  every 
four  hours,  they  can  turn  in  if  they  like.  Sailors  are  not  allowed 
to  dry  their  clothes  at  a  fire — they  must  wear  them  and  wait  for  dry 
weather.  Bread  horrible,  crawling  with  little  maggots,  which  only 
some  take  the  precaution  of  killing  by  baking  the  bread  over  again. 
Salt  beef — no  butter,  or  eggs,  or  anything.  If  sailors  are  not 
canonised,  it  is  not  for  want  of  austerities.  The  captain  of  a  small 
merchant  vessel  told  me  that  most  of  the  wild  lads  who  run  off  to 
sea  would,  after  their  first  voyage,  be  very  glad  to  relapse  into 
landlubberdom  if  shame  or  necessity  did  not  make  them  go  on. 

These  realities  of  sea-life  do  not  altogether  apply  to  a  cadet  in 
the  royal  navy ;  but  Augustus  Law  must  have  suffered  many  a 
hardship  which  a  less  brave-hearted  boy  would  have  complained  of, 
taken  as  he  was  so  early  from  a  loving  and  happy  home.  I  have 
heard  him  describe  the  severe  and  often  whimsical  penances 
imposed  for  faults.  He  was  himself  left  standing  in  the  "  bits  " 
(even  when  the  Admiral  came  on  board  to  inspect  the  ship)  for 
nothing  more  serious  than  flinging  a  book  at  a  brother  midshipman. 
We  may  be  sure  that  he  went  through  a  hard-enough  novitiate  on 
board  Her  Majesty's  ship  "  Carysfort." 

But  the  story  cannot  be  finished  this  month.  As  Augustus 
Law  said,  in  ending  one  of  his  letters  abruptly :  "  I  am  afraid  I 
must  let  go  my  anchor  here  for  a  short  time." 

(To  be  continued). 


(    192    ) 


ESTRADA'S  SPOUSE. 
The  Legend  of  the  Persian  Peincess. 

Bt  Elkako.1  C.  Doskelly. 

WITHIN  her  palace,  in  the  Hall  of  Mirrors, 
One  glorious  day  in  Spring — 
'Mid  all  the  glamour  of  the  glittering  mirrors, 
The  daughter  of  the  King, 

A  Princess,  young  and  innocent  and  tender, 

Sat  silent  and  alone, 
In  satin  robes  whose  wealth  of  trailing  splendour 

Half  veiled  her  ivory  throne. 

Her  lustrous  eyes  like  liquid  sapphires  gleaming, 

Her  white  hand  'neath  her  head*— 
The  noble  maid  was  dreaming — dreaming — dreaming 

Of  him  she  soon  should  wed. 

Her  Persian  prince ;  how  grand  his  royal  bearing ! 

How  grave  his  manly  face ! 
His  soul  so  full  of  chivalry  and  daring ! 

His  form  so  full  of  grace  ! 

'Mid  all  the  flower  of  her  father's  courtiers, 

Was  none  as  fair  as  he ! 
"0  prince  of  men!  "  she  sighed,  and  blushing  faltered t 

"  Who  can  compare  with  thee  ?  " 

Lo !  on  the  instant,  swift  as  though  it  lightened, 

A  glory  filled  the  air ; 
And  all  the  lofty  room  was  warmed  and  brightened 

By  one  grand  Presence  there ! 

No  mortal  eye  had  peen  the  stranger  enter. 

No  ear  had  heard  his  tread, 
Yet  there,  resplendent,  in  the  chamber's  centre, 

He  stood  unheralded. 

A  tall  and  stately  shape,  divinely  moulden, 

In  regal  vestments  clad ; 
His  floating  hair  and  beard,  a  halo  golden, 

Around  a  visage  glad. 


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Estrada* 8  Spouse.  193 

Beep,  earnest  eyes,  supremely  true  and  tender, 

A  brow  majestic,  mild. 
Upon  the  startled  maiden  fair  and  tender, 

The  radiant  vision  smiled. 

M Behold!"  He  sighed,  and  (strange  to  say)  as  slowly 

He  raised  His  gracious  Hand, 
Across  the  velvet  of  its  palm  all  holy, 

She  saw  a  Wound  expand* 

A  deep  red  Wound,  which,  like  a  flaming  jewel, 

Shone  with  a  ruddy  light : 
Ah !  who  (she  thought)  had  dared  with  weapon  cruel 

That  beauteous  Hand  to  smite  ? 

"  Look  round ! "  He  said,  and  then  the  king's  fair  daughter, 

Turning,  beheld  it  all ! — 
Like  clearest  streams  of  calm,  unruffled  water, 

The  mirror  on  the  wall 

Reflected  back  the  beauty  and  the  glory, 

Of  that  Eternal  King— 
Whose  endless  praise  in  sweetest  song  and  story 

The  Bards  of  Heaven  sing. 

44  Hear,  and  take  heed,  0  child  of  my  affection ! " 

The  dulcet  voice  pursued, 
"Each  faithful  mirror's  pure  and  true  reflection 

Of  Mine  own  pulchritude  : 

"  Each  curve,  and  tint,  and  line— each  shining  shimmer 

Of  robes  reflected  there ; 
The  Brow,  the  Lip,  the  Eye — the  golden  glimmer 

Of  every  single  hair, 

41  Are  symbols,  dear  Estrada,  of  my  creatures 

In  whom  my  beauties  shine ; 
The  human  souls'  celestial  form  and  features, 

Reflecting  the  Bivine ! 

''  And  wilt  thou  love  the  unsubstantial  shadow 

More  than  the  substance  true, 
O  virgin  Princess !  innocent  Estrada, 

Wilt  thou,  in  vain,  pursue 

"  An  apparition  fair,  but  fake  and  fleeting, 

Which  fades  before  'tis  won  ; 
A  bright  chimera  evermore  retreating 

Before  the  changeless  One  P 


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194  Irish-American  Poets. 

"  Look  on  My  Wounds,  and  tell  Me,  young  Estrada, 

Shall  phantoms  claim  thy  vows  ? 
Wilt  thou,  indeed,  prefer  this  mortal  shadow 

To  thine  immortal  Spouse  P  " 

The  Persian  princess  heard,  and  swift  uprising 

Drew  close  her  Tirgin  zone  5 
With  burning  love,  with  faith  and  hope  surprising, 

She  stepp'd  from  off  her  throne. 

Her  lovely  face  aglow  with  glad  decision, 

(0  maid,  supremely  blest !) 
Her  arms  like  lilies,  twining  round  the  Vision, 

Her  head  upon  His  breast. 

In  ringing  tones,  she  cries  :  "  The  dream  is  over ! — 

No  bride  of  earth  I'll  be ; 
0  Lord,  my  God!  my  first  Eternal  Lover! 

I  leave  all  loves  for  Thee  /" 


L 


IRISH-AMERICAN  POETS  * 
By  Daniel  Connolly. 

IRELAND  has  contributed  largely  to  the  poetical  ranks  of 
America,  as  to  all  others  in  which  distinction  is  gained.  The 
earliest  Irish- American  poet  whose  merit  received  recognition  was 
Richard  Henry  Wilde.  Wilde  is  claimed  by  some  American  com- 
pilers of  poetry  as  of  American  birth,  but  this  is  an  error.  He 
was  born  in  Dublin  in  1789,  and  taken  to  America  in  his  child- 
hood. He  educated  himself,  and  became  Attorney-General  of  the 
State  of  Georgia,  in  which  he  had  made  his  home.  He  also 
represented  that  State  in  Congress,  where  he  gained  reputation  as 
an  eloquent  and  effective  speaker.    By  his  habits  of  study,  which 

*  By  a  curious  coincidence,  while  the  following  contribution  was  coming 
to  us  across  the  Atlantic,  certain  pages  of  the  present  Number  were  already  in 
print  in  which  two  or  three  names  figure  which  occur  again  in  Mr.  Connolly's 
article.— Ed.  J.  M. 


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Irish-American  Poets.  195 

continued  through  life,  he  was  enabled  to  acquire  a  good  know- 
ledge of  languages,  including  Spanish  and  Italian,  and  it  was  in 
the  field  of  translation  from  those  languages  that  his  most  im- 
portant poetical  work  was  done.  He  also,  however,  wrote  a  num- 
ber of  original  poems,  showing  fine  taste  and  fancy,  and  graceful 
power  of  expression.  One  that  became  a  general  favourite,  and  is 
still  reprinted,  is  entitled,  "My  Life  is  like  a  Summer  Rose." 
He  wrote  a  poem  on  the  Tomb  of  Napoleon  that  is  worthy  of  a 
place  beside  Bartholomew  Simmons'  noble  poem  on  the  same  sub- 
ject. Mr.  Wilde  died  in  1847.  He  was  the  first  American  poet 
of  note  belonging  to  the  Irish  race. 

There  is  no  more  perfect  elegiac  poem  in  any  language  than 
the  "  Bivouac  of  the  Dead,"  written  by  Colonel  Theodore  O'Hara. 
It  has  been  quoted  thousands  of  times,  and  stanzas  from  it  are 
inscribed  on  granite  and  marble  in  American  "national"  cemeteries, 
wherein  lies  the  dust  of  heroes  of  the  great  Civil  War.  Colonel 
OUara,  born  in  Kentucky,  in  1820,  was  a  son  of  Kane  O'Hara,  a 
cultured  Irish  gentleman,  who  settled  in  America  in  early  man- 
hood. His  mother  was  an  American  lady,  connected  with  the 
family  of  the  famous  frontiersman,  Daniel  Boone.  One  of  Colonel 
O'Hara's  poems,  similar  in  spirit  to  "  The  Bivouac  of  the  Dead," 
but  not  equal  to  it,  and  entitled  "  The  Old  Pioneer,"  was  written 
as  a  dirge  for  Boone.  He  wrote  many  other  poems,  which  were 
collected  after  his  death,  for  publication  in  book  form,  but  in 
some  way  they  became  mislaid,  and  finally  lost ;  and  the  two  here 
named  are  the  only  ones  now  extant.  The  poet-soldier  was  an 
officer  in  the  war  with  Mexico,  and  prominent  in  the  Confederate 
service,  during  the  war  between  North  and  South.  He  died  in 
Alabama,  in  1867,  and  his  native  State  did  him  the  honour  of 
having  his  ashes  brought  home  for  final  rest.  He  was  a  true  poet 
and  a  brave  man. 

Another  Southern  State — famous  old  Virginia— is  the  birthplace 
of  the  gifted  poet-priest,  the  Rev.  Abraham  J.  Ryan.  Father 
Ryan's  place  among  American  poets  is  fixed  and  secure.  There  is 
not  one  among  the  whole  number  whose  melodious  lines  go  more 
directly  to  the  heart,  which  all  true  poetry  must  not  only  touch, 
but  enter.  As  the  poet  of  the  "  Lost  Cause  "  of  the  South,  he 
stands  foremost,  if  not  alone.  It  is  not  the  purpose  of  this  last 
paper  to  analyse  the  quality  of  Irish- American  poetry,  but  it  may 
at  least  be  said  that  Father  Ryan's  verses  contain  the  choicest  and 
purest  poetical  elements.  Their  pervading  sadness,  to  which 
exception  is  sometimes  taken,  is   merely  pathos  in  its  deepest 

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196  Irish-American  Poets. 

expression.  This  poet,  although  of  American  birth,  is  of  direot 
Irish  extraction,  and  hardly  second  to  his  love  for  his  native 
South  is  his  affection  for  the  fair  land  of  his  fathers,  as  some  of 
his  poems  eloquently  show.  "  Erin's  Flag  "  is  undoubtedly  one  of 
the  most  intensely  Irish  poems  ever  written,  not  a  whit  less  national 
and  passionate  than  Davis's  "Green  above  the  Bed."  It  is  a 
worthy  companion-piece  to  "  The  Conquered  Banner/'  than  which 
there  is  no  more  exquisite  poem  of  its  kind  in  the  literature  of 
any  land. 

Thomas  Darcy  M'Gee  had  probably  done  the  best  work  of 
which  he  was  capable,  as  a  poet,  when  the  bullet  of  an  assassin 
ended  his  life.  He  was  one  of  the  most  prolific  of  writers,  and 
almost  every  line  traced  by  his  restless  pen  throbbed  with  fervid 
love  for  his  native  land.  In  so  far  as  his  patriotism  can  be  judged 
by  his  poetry,  it  must  be  considered  as  earnest  as  that  of  the 
boldest  spirit  of  Forty-eight.  A  Celt  to  the  heart,  and  a  loving 
student  of  all  that  related  to  his  race,  he  was  almost  over-ardent 
in  his  impassioned  outbursts  of  national  song.  M'Gee  lived  in 
America  some  twenty  years,  and  though  his  latter  years  were 
passed  in  Canada,  and  as  a  member  of  the  Canadian  Government, 
he  must  be  ranked  as  an  Irish- American.  Soon  after  his  death  all 
his  poems  were  collected  by  the  Irish- American  authoress,  Mrs. 
Mary  A.  Sadlier,  who  held  him  in  especially  warm  esteem,  and 
wrote  an  appreciative  biographical  sketch  for  the  volume.  His 
age  at  the  time  of  his  assassination  was  forty-three  years. 

Genial,  witty,  versatile,  popular  Charles  G.  Halpine,  whose 
other  self,  "  Miles  O'Reilly,"  became  everybody's  friend,  was  an 
Irishman  in  every  fibre.  His  first  literary  work  was  done  in 
Dublin,  but  it  was  in  New  York  that  he  expanded,  developed,  and 
gained  all  his  celebrity.  Halpine  had  rare  powers  and  was  capable 
of  superior  work.  His  mind  was  of  the  kind  that  neither  sleeps 
nor  tires.  But  the  man  who  writes  verse  rapidly,  under  the  stress 
of  newspaper  duty,  can  rarely  do  himself  justice.  That  was 
Halpine' s  case.  He  was  an  editor  a  great  part  of  the  time,  when 
his  pen  was  most  active,  and  editors  have  but  few  hours  for  fine 
finishing  touches.  Nevertheless,  Halpine  wrote  some  poems  of 
excellent  quality.  One,  entitled  "Janet's  Hair,"  is  a  gem  in 
delicious  and  tender  feeling.  "  A  Vesper  Hymn  "  is  another  that 
shows  him  at  his  best,  and  the  last  poem  of  his  life,  written  im- 
mediately before  his  death — "  On  Raising  a  Monument  to  the 
Irish  Legion  " — is  a  truly  noble  production.  Many  of  his  poems, 
however,  were  written  on  topics  of  the  moment,  chiefly  political, 

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Irish- American  Poets.  197 

and  therefore  evanescent.  These  were  "  thrown  off "  in  haste, 
and  though  full  of  clever  points  and  happy  hits,  their  interest  was 
not  of  a  kind  to  endure.  Halpine  was  taken  away  in  his  prime, 
even  before  he  had  counted  his  fortieth,  year.  He  was  a  staff- 
officer  in  the  Civil  War,  when  he  began  using  the  sobriquet  of 
"  Miles  O'Reilly." 

New  York  was  the  working-field  of  FitzJames  O'Brien  and 
Charles  Dawson  Shanly,  both  of  Irish  birth  and  men  of  excellent 
talent.  O'Brien  was  the  more  brilliant  and  gained  most  distinc- 
tion, part  of  which  was  due  to  the  remarkable  quality  of  several 
short  tales,  somewhat  in  the  style  of  Edgar  A.  Poe,  which  he  con- 
tributed to  the  magazines.  He  was  a  native  of  the  county  Lime- 
rick, and  educated  in  Dublin.  Some  time  after  his  death,  his  poems 
and  stories  were  collected  by  his  friend,  the  well-known  dramatic 
critic,  William  Winter,  and  published  in  a  handsome  volume.  His 
poems  are  not  equal  in  artistic  finish  to  his  stories,  but  they  show 
imagination,  pathos  and  a  dramatic  spirit  that  borders  on  the  tragic. 
A  monody  on  the  Arctic  explorer,  Dr.  Kane,  is  probably  the  best. 
Shanly  was  a  more  careful  writer,  and  not  so  picturesque.  He 
was  more  essentially  a  critic  and  essayist  than  a  poet,  but  he  wrote 
some  poems  of  superior  quality  nevertheless.  "  The  Walker  of 
the  Snow,"  "Civile  Bellum  "  and  "The  Briar- wood  Pipe "  are 
marked  by  characteristics  certainly  of  no  common  kind.  O'Brien, 
like  Halpine,  became  a  staff-officer  in  the  great  war  and  was  killed 
in  Virginia,  at  the  age  of  thirty-four.  Shanly  died  in  1875,  aged 
sixty-four. 

Boston  possessed,  a  few  years  ago,  two  Irish- American  poets 
of  wide  and  well  deserved  reputation — namely,  Robert  Dwyer 
Joyce  and  John  Boyle  O'Reilly.  Dr.  Joyce  has  passed  to  another 
world,  but  Mr.  O'Reilly  remains  and  continues  to  be  a  thoroughly 
live  man.  Joyce  had  written  a  number  of  spirited  ballads  before 
he  left  Ireland,  about  1865,  but  it  was  some  years  after  he  settled 
in  Boston  that  his  best  work  was  done.  His  splendid  epics, 
"Deirdre"  and  "Blanid,"  brought  him  honours  from  all  quarters,  and 
were  received  with  delight  by  both  the  critics  and  the  public.  The 
appearance  of  "  Deirdre,"  although  the  work  came  out  anonymously, 
was  hailed  as  a  poetic  revelation.  "  Blanid  "  also  had  a  cordial  wel- 
come though  it  did  not  awaken  quite  as  much  interest  as  the  previous 
poem.  Joyce  wrote  very  little  after  "Blanid"  was  published. 
His  health  failed  and  he  dropped  the  pen  that  had  proved  a  wizard's 
wand  in  his  hand.  Returning  to  Ireland,  sadly  broken,  he  died 
in  Dublin  in  1883. 

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198  Irish-American  Poets. 

John  Boyle  O'Reilly  has  been  an  American  twenty  years  or  so. 
It  may  be  said  that  he  is  now  the  foremost  Irishman  connected 
with  literature  in  the  United  States.  Besides  being  a  poet  and 
editor,  he  has  made  his  mark  as  a  novelist,  and  is  a  successful 
lecturer.  In  all  his  literary  work  the  quality  of  forceful  expression 
is  paramount.  But  with  the  expression  there  always  is  vigorous 
thought ;  the  writer  never  speaks  unless  he-has  something  to  say. 
Mr.  O'Reilly's  merit  as  a  poet  was  recognised  even  before  his  first 
book  appeared.  Judged  by  the  accepted  canons,  his  best  poem  is 
4i  The  King  of  the  Tasse,"  though  it  is  not  the  best  known.  This 
poem  relates  a  weird  and-richly  coloured  story,  purporting  to  be 
an  Australian  legend.  "The  Amber  Whale"  is' another  admir- 
able production,  with  enough  of  the  marvellous  to  awaken  an 
interest  as  keen  as  that  of  a  child  in  a  fairy  tale — in  the  long,  long 
ago,  when  children  were  young.  His  Irish  poems  are  bold,  ardent, 
throbbing  with  earnest  purpose,  but  never  extravagant  either  in 
thought  or  diction.  Mr.  O'Reilly  is  now  forty-two  years  old,  and 
at  his  best. 

Among  other  names  on  the  list  of  Irish- American  poets,  men- 
tion should  be  made  of  those  of  John  Savage  and  Joseph  Brenan. 
Mr.  Savage  has  written  extensively,  and  one  of  his  poems,  "Shaun's 
Head,"  is  widely  known.  Brenan  died  nearly  thirty  years  ago, 
leaving  many  fine  pieces,  including  one  of  the  sweetest  and 
tenderest  ever  written,  entitled  "  Come  to  me,  Dearest."  Richard 
Dalton  Williams  might  also  be  set  down  as  Irish- American, 
inasmuch  as  he  lived  several  years  in  America,  wrote  many  poems 
in  his  adopted  country,  and  died  in  it.  It  is  proper,  moreover, 
to  name  Hugh  Farrar  M'Dermott,  whose  "  Blind  Canary "  has 
been  much  admired ;  William  D.  Gallagher,  son  of  one  of 
the  United  Irishmen  ;  John  Augustus  Shea  and  Edward  Maturin 
(both  dead) ;  John  Boyle,  a  true  poet  (also  dead) ;  James  Jeffrey 
Roche,  of  the  Boston  "  Pilot "  staff ;  Rev.  Patrick  Cronin,  and 
William  D.  Kelly.  Nor  should  Maurice  F.  Egan  be  omitted. 
Mr.  Egan  is  of  American  birth  and  Irish  parentage.  He  has 
written  some  exceedingly  fine  poems  and  is  regarded  as  one  of  the 
most  promising  of  the  younger  authors. 

Place  am-  dafnes,  by  all  means !  And  first,  by  right  of  the 
intense  national  fervour  of  her  songs,  is  Fanny  Parnell,  the 
"  Speranza  "  of  the  new  Ireland  in  America.  The  early  death  of 
this  spirited  singer  was  a  sad  loss.  No  other  hand  has  yet  taken 
up  the  harp  that  fell  from  hers.  She  struck  its  chords  with  fingers 
of  fire,  and  brought  forth  sounds  which  thrilled  and  burned.   Her 


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love  for  Ireland  was  deep,  passionate,  boundless,  overwhelming. 
All  her  poems  were  the  result  of  impetuous  inspiration.  She  wrote 
rapidly,  and  rarely  made  any  change  in  the  throbbing  lines  whioh 
rushed  swiftly  from  her  pen.  "  Post  Mortem/'  "  Dragon's  Teeth," 
and  "Ireland,  Mother"  are  fair  specimens  of  her  power  and 
pathos.  It  is  needless  to  speak  of  Miss  ParnelTs  personality. 
Probably  half  of  her  brief  life  was  passed  in  America,  chiefly  in 
New  York.  The  family  residence  at  Bordentown,  New  Jersey, 
once  the  home  of  her  grandfather,  Commodore  Stewart,  is  within 
a  couple  of  hours  of  the  metropolis,  by  rail.  When  death  came, 
her  age  was  about  twenty-seven  years. 

Mrs.  Yincenzo  Botta  is  a  name  still  occasionally  heard.  A 
generation  ago,  the  lady  who  bears  it  was  a  central  figure  in  the 
literary  and  art  circles  of  New  York.  Her  home  was  the  resort 
of  celebrities  of  both  professions,  and  approached  more  nearly  to 
the  character  of  the  French  salon  than  any  other  in  the  city.  Mrs. 
Botta  was  originally  Miss  Anne  Charlotte  Lynch,  and  her  father 
was  one  of  the  United  Irishmen  who  shared  the  prison  and 
the  exile  of  Thomas  Addis  Emmet,  her  mother,  however,  being  of 
an  American  family.  A  neat  volume,  published  by  a  leading 
New  York  house,  contains  the  poems  of  Mrs.  Botta.  Most  of 
them  were  written  a  good  many  years  ago.  They  are  chiefly 
reflective,  graceful  in  form,  and  marked  by  clear  and  choice 
expression.  The  home  of  this  lady  is  still  frequented  by  many 
persons  of  literary  and  social  distinction.  She  is  the  wife  of 
a  learned  Italian  gentleman,  Professor  Vincenzo  Botta. 

Boston  countq  among  her  many  accomplished  women  Mrs. 
Mary  E.  Blake,  wife  of  a  leading  physician.  The  poetical  abilities 
of  Mrs.  Blake  are  already  known  to  the  readers  of  the  "  Irish 
Monthly.*'  They  are  of  a  high  order  and  have  brought  her  much 
distinction.  She  excels  in  singing  about  children,  but  she  writes 
well  on  all  themes  and  she  never  forgets  that  she  is  both  Irish  and 
Catholic.  Boston  is  also  the  home  of  two  other  ladies  who  write 
excellent  poems  and  belong  to  Irish-American  company — Miss 
Katharine  E.  Conway  and  Miss  Louise  Imogen  Guiney.  Mrs. 
Blake  was  born  in  Ireland,  but  Miss  Conway  and  Miss  Guiney  are 
of  American  birth,  though  Irish  by  parentage.  Both  are  young, 
but  each  has  published  a  collection  of  poems,  and  the  modest  book 
of  each  has  been  well  received.  Miss  Conway  is  a  writer  of 
indefatigable  industry,  and  much  more  active  in  general  literature 
than  in  the  special  domain  of  verse.    Miss  Guiney's  talent  also 


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200      *  Irish-American  Poets. 

shows  versatility.    She  is  a  daughter  of  the  late  General  Patrick 
Guiney,  an  able  Irish- American  soldier. 

Eleanor  G.  Donnelly,  of  Philadelphia,  has  had  a  creditable 
place  among  poets  for  several  years.  She  has  published  three 
volumes  of  poems,  each  of  which  has  had  a  good  reception.  She 
writes  chiefly  on  religious  subjects  and  always  with  the  devotional 
spirit  of  a  truly  pious  Catholic.  She  is,  in  fact,  essentially  a 
Catholic  poet,  whose  pen  is  always  guided  by  a  sense  of  Christian 
love  and  duty.  Miss  Donnelly  is  a  native  of  the  city  in  which  she 
lives,  but  Irish  by  parentage,  at  least.  Mary  Ainge  De  Vere  is 
another  lady  who  has  made  valuable  contributions  to  poetical 
literature.  She,  also,  is  of  Irish  parentage,  but  born  in  America. 
Her  poems  appear  in  the  leading  magazines  and  some  are  widely 
reprinted.  Although  her  name  might  suggest  relationship  to  the 
poetical  De  Veres  of  Ireland,  she  is  not  of  that  family.  The 
name  of  Mary  E.  Mannix  is  also  entitled  to  a  place.  Mrs.  Manniz, 
whose  maiden  name  was  Walsh,  is  a  native  of  New  York  and 
now  a  resident  of  Cincinnati.  She  has  written  a  number  of  very 
choice  poems.  Esmeralda  Boyle,  likewise  of  Irish  extraction,  has 
been  known  some  years  as  a  writer  of  pleasing  verse.  Mrs.  Mar- 
garet F.  Sullivan,  who  was  born  in  Ireland,  is  the  author  of  some 
strong  poems,  but  is  better  known  as  a  writer  of  vigorous  prose. 
Mary  A.  M'Mullin,  who  wrote  under  the  name  of  "  Una,"  and 
published  a  volume  of  very  fair  poems  in  Cincinnati,  a  number  of 
years  ago,  was  also  of  Irish  birth.  One  of  the  younger  writers, 
who  promises  well,  is  Minnie  Gilmore,  a  daughter  of  the  well- 
known  musician,  Patrick  S.  Gilmore.  There  are  other  writers  of 
both  sexes  who  might  be  mentioned,  but  the  names  here  given 
show  that  the  Irish  race  is  well  represented  in  the  production  of 
poetry  in  America.* 

*  Some  samples  of  Mrs.  Blake's  poetry  are  given  at  page  663  of  our  volume 
for  1885.  The  combination  of  names  "  Kane  O'Hara  "  is  so  peculiar  as  to  point 
to  a  relationship  between  the  father  of  Theodore  O'Hara,  who  is  mentioned 
second  in  the  foregoing  paper,  and  the  musical  composer,  Kane  O'Hara,  who 
died  in  Dublin,  in  1782. 

Mr.  Connolly's  readers  will  be  glad  to  hear  that  his  great  collection  of  Irish 
and  Irish- American  poetry  is  at  last  completed  and  will  speedily  be  published. 
It  will  form  by  far  the  amplest  anthology  of  Celtic  song  ever  yet  given  to  the 
world.— Ed.  /.  M. 


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(    201  .) 


NUTSHELL  BIOGRAMS. 

Second  Handful. 

12.  Annie  Keary  was  the  daughter  of  Mr.  William  Keary,  an  Irish 
Protestant  gentleman  of  Clough,  near  Taam,  in  the  county  of  Gal  way. 
She  was  born  on  the  3rd  of  March,  1825.  Though  she  spent  all  her 
life  in  England,  where  her  father,  who  had  been  in  the  army,  became 
a  clergyman,  she  had  warm  Irish  feelings  and  Catholic  tendencies : 
aud  her  Irish  novel  "  Castle  Daly  "  was  singled  out  by  so  un-English 
an  Irishman  as  Mr.  John  O'Leary,  in  a  lecture  at  Cork,  as  singularly 
and  almost  solely  worthy  of  high  praise  out  of  the  hosts  of  so-called 
Irish  novels  written  of  late.  Her  other  books  (besides  a  delightful 
story  for  children,  "  A  York  and  Lancaster  Rose  ")  are  "  Oldbury," 
"  Janet's  Home,"  "  Clemency  Franklyn,"  and  "  A  Doubting  Heart," 
which  she  had  not  quite  finished,  when  she  died  in  1879,  on  the  3rd  of 
March,  her  birthday. 

18.  Robebt  Ffrench  Whitehbad  was  born  in  Lower  Dominick- 
street,  Dublin,  July  28th,  1807.  He  entered  the  Humanity  Class  in 
Maynooth  College,  August  26th,  1820,  only  a  month  after  his  thirteenth 
birthday.  Dr.  John  O'Hanlon,  afterwards  the  distinguished  Prefect 
of  the  Dunboyne  Establishment,  entered  at  the  same  time  for  Rhetoric. 
He  was  ordained  sub-deacon,  August  24th,  1828,  and  the  next  week, 
after  a  public  examination,  appointed  Professor  of  English  Rhetoric, 
though  he  was  not  ordained  priest  till  March  6th,  1830.  Before  priest- 
hood also  he  had  been  promoted  to  the  chair  of  philosophy,  though 
his  competitors  were  Dr  Joseph  Dixon,  afterwards  Archbishop  of 
Armagh,  and  the  Rev.  Francis  M'Gennis,  an  eloquent  preacher.  On 
this  occasion  he  extemporised  this  prophetic  hexameter  : — 

"  Vici  facundum  hoetem  Primatemque  f uturum." 

In  1 845  Dr.  Whitehead  was  appointed  Vice-President  of  the  College, 
and  he  held  this  office  till  1872,  when  he  resigned  through  failing 
health,  after  having  had  an  important  part  in  the  ecclesiastical  train- 
ing of  thirty-five  bishops  and  more  than  three  thousand  priests.  He 
died  on  the  last  day  of  the  year  1 878.  .  No  stone  as  yet  marks  his 
grave  in  the  College  Cemetery. 

14.  William  Elliot  Hudson  was  an  Irish  scholar  ardently  devoted 

«  to  Irish  antiquities,  and  a  bosom  friend  of  Thomas  Davis.    He  was  a 

munificent  patron,  according  to  his  means  and  beyond  them,  of  every 

literary  enterprise  redounding  to  the  glory  of  Ireland.    The  ancient 

Irish  music  in  The  Citizen  was  printed  at  his  expense,  and  we  believe 


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202  NuUhett  Biograms. 

that  the  original  airs  in  "  The  Spirit  of  The  Nation  "  are  partly  due  to 
him.  This  Irish  spirit  makes  one  less  surprised  at  the  information 
given  by  the  Rev.  Matthew  Kelly  of  Maynooth  College,  at  page  49  of 
his  "  Calendar  of  Irish  Saints/'  published  in  1857,  a  compilation,  he 
says,  "  made  many  years  ago,  at  the  suggestion  of  the  late  William 
Elliot  Hudson,  eujue  animce  propitietur  Deui.  He  had  attended  Mass 
punctually  after  the  death  of  his  brother  the  Dean  of  Armagh,  and 
announced  to  the  Rev.  Mr.  Wall,  C.C.,  Cork,  his  wish  to  become  a 
Catholic,  in  November,  1852.  He  was  reoeived  into  the  Catholic  Church 
in  January,  1853."  We  have  wished  to  record  this  important  circum- 
stance about  a  true-hearted  Irishman,  lest  it  should  be  overlooked  if 
we  waited  to  ascertain  other  dates  and  circumstances  in  his  life. 

15.  Fixz  JiMEs  O'Bbien  was  born  in  the  county  Limerick,  in  the 
year  1828.  His  father  was  an  attorney,  and  he  was  educated  in 
Trinity  College.  His  American  biographer,  Mr.  William  Winter, 
does  not  describe  his  birth-place  more  definitely.  He  claims  for  him 
the  authorship  of  poems  in  Hayes's  Ballads  of  Ireland,  "  Lough  Lie," 
and  "  Irish  Castles."  Having,  it  is  said,  spent  a  pretty  large  inheritance 
in  London,  O'Brien  in  1852  made  his  way  to  New  York.  There  he 
spent  ten  years  as  a  literary  Bohemian,  contributing  very  clever  things 
to  Harper's  Magatine,  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  and  other  less  widely  known 
periodicals.  Many  of  these  have  been  gatbftlCd  into  separate  volumes. 
The  Saturday  Review  compares  him  to  Edgar  Allan  Poe,  saying  "  he 
is  less  powerful  than  Poe,  but  more  attractive,"  and  attributing  to  this 
Irishman  greater  originality.  When  the  Civil  War  broke  out  in  1861, 
O'Brien  joined  the  army  of  the  North,  was  wounded  On  the  26th 
February,  1862,  and,  lingering  on,  died  on  the  6th  of  April  at  Cum- 
berland in  Virginia ;  but  his  body  was  brought  to  New  York  and 
buried  in  Greenwood  Cemetery — laid  finally  in  the  earth  so  late  as 
November  27,  1874,  with  no  stone  to  mark  the  spot,  it  seems,  for  Mr. 
Winter  adds  that  his  grave  is  No.  1183,  in  lot  No.  17,263.  Mr.  William 
Winter  is  too  much  of  a  Bohemian  himself  to  allude  to  religion  in 
even  the  remotest  manner.  Was  poor  Fitz  James  O'Brien  a  Catholic  P 
Did  his  mother  teach  him  the  HaU  Mary  after  the  Our  Father  in  his 
childhood  ?  If  so,  no  matter  how  he  may  have  strayed,  the  mercy 
of  Ood  gave  him  time  to  think  and  to  look  back  and  to  look  forward 
during  the  six  or  seven  weeks  that  he  hovered  between  life  and  death, 
death  winning  at  last. 

16.  Richabd  Baptist  O'Brien  was  born  at  the  West-gate  in  Carrick- 
on-Suir,  September  30th,  1809.  When  seven  years  old  he  was  sent 
to  Limerick  where  one  of  his  schoolmates  was  John  MitcheTs  friend, 
Father  John  Eenyon  of  Templedeny.  After  spending  some  time  in 
business,  he  determined  to  become  a  priest,  and  after  a  year  in  Carlow 


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NuUhell  Bbgratns.  203 

College,  lie  entered  Maynooth  in  1833,  and,  having  completed  a  very 
distinguished  course,  was  ordained  priest,  in  December,  1838,  by  Dr. 
Ryan,  Bishop  of  Limerick.  He  was  soon  after  placed  over  the  College 
of  Halifax  in  Nova  Scotia,  where  he  worked  with  great  earnestness 
for  five  years.  After  a  year  or  two  as  Professor  in  All-Hallows 
Missionary  College,  near  Dublin,  he  returned  to  Limerick.  It  was  at 
this  time  that  he  founded  the  Young  Men's  Societies  which  still 
continue  in  Cork  and  some  other  places.  He  closed  his  life  as  Dean  of 
Limerick  and  P.P.  of  Newcastle-West.  He  was  a  man  of  great  piety 
and  great  ability.  His  best  literary  work  is  an  Irish  story  "Alley 
Moore."  He  died  on  the  10th  of  February,  1885,  a  day  before 
Cardinal  M'Cabe,  and  a  year  before  his  venerated  bishop,  Dr.  George 
Butler,  his  college  contemporary  and  life-long  friend.  May  they  rest 
in  peace  I 

I^Mattbiok  Frajtgib  Egan,  born  at  Philadelphia,  May  24,  1852, 
still  living,  and,  please  God,  with  many  years  of  good  work  before  hinx. 
His  father  was  a  native  of  Tipperary ;  his  mother,  though  born  at  her 
son's  birth-plaoe,  was  of  a  purely  Irish  race.  After  his  schooldays, 
Maurice  Egan  was  one  of  the  lay  professors  at  Georgetown  College, 
as  Richard  Dalton  Williams  had  been  in  his  time  at  another  Jesuit 
College  further  south.  He  studied  law,  but  finally  became  a  journalist, 
and  then  a  Catholic  journalist.  He  once  said :  "  If  I  could  only  be  in 
America  what  Louis  Yeuillot  is  in  Prance,  I  should  be  satisfied."  A 
lofty  ideal,  which  perhaps  prompted  him  to  translate  Veuillot's  epitaph 
on  himself,  a  miniature  apologia  pro  vita  ma.  After  working  at  The 
Catholic  Review  and  other  papers,  he  is  now  assistant  editor  to  Mr. 
James  M'Master,  of  the  New  York  Freeman9 $  Journal,  who.  might  be 
called  the  Frederic  Lucas  of  the  United  States  inasmuch  as  he  is  a 
very  uncompromising  convert  and  a  very  vigorous  writer,  but  he  lacks 
Lucas's  splendid  literary  culture.  A  domestic  point  of  resemblance 
may  be  noted— Lucas's  only  son  is  a  priest,  M 'Master's  three  daughters 
are  nuns.  Several  volumes  of  Mr.  Egan's  graoeful  stories  have  been 
collected ;  and  he  published  earlier  a  small  volume  of  poems  of  great 
promise,  called  "  Preludes  " — a  name  already  belonging  to  a  very 
'exquisite  volume  of  poetry,  illustrated  by  the  painter  of  The  Boll  Call, 
and  written  by  her  sister,  Miss  Alice  Thompson,  who  has  since  confined 
herself  to  brilliant  prose,  chiefly  on  artistic  subjects,  under  her  new 
name,  Mrs.  Wilfrid  Meynell,  It  was  not  merely  Longfellow's  most 
generous  appreciation  of  young  poets  that  made  him  recognise  in  Mr. 
Egan's  poems  "a  certain  freshness  in  the  thought  and  manner  of 
expression  which  is  very  attractive."     Here  is  his  sonnet  on  Fra 

Angelico : — 

Art  is  true  art  when  art  to  God  is  true, 

And  only  then  :  to  copy  Nature's  work 
Without  the  chains  that  run  the  whole  world  through 
Gives  us  the  eye  without  the  lights  that  lurk 
Vol.  xiv.  No.  164.  16 

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204  Nutshell  Biogram. 

In  its  clear  depths :  no  soul*  no  troth  it  there.  , 

Oh,  praise  your  Rubens  and  his  fleshly  brush ! 
'  Oil,  lore  your  Titian  and  his  carnal  air ! 

Give  me  the  trilling  of  a  pure-toned  thrush, 
And  take  your  crimson  parrots.    Artist-saint ! 

0  Fra  Angelico  !  your  brush  was  dyed 
In  hues  of  opal,  not  in  vulgar  paint; 

You  showed  to  us  pure  joys  for  which  you  sighed, 
Your  heart  was  in  your  work,  you  never  feigned : 
You  left  us  here  the  Paradise  you  gained ! 

Though  such  extracts  are  out  of  place  in  this  nutshell  series,  let  us 
put  side  by  side  the  epitaph  and  its  translation  referred  to  above.  The 
French  verses  were  placed  as  a  preface  before  one  of  his  delightful 
books  by  the  redoubtable  editor  of  the  Univere : — 

Placez  a  mon  cdte*  ma  plume,  , 

Sur  mon  cceur  le  Christ,  mon  orgueil ; 
Souk  mes  pieds  mettez  ce  volume, 
Et  clouez  en  paix  le  cercueil. 

Apres  la  derniere  pridre, 

Sur  ma  fosse  plantez  la  croix ;  . 

Et  si  Ton  me  donne  une  pierre,  j 

Graves  dessus :  J  'ai  crutje  writ,  * 

Dites  entre  vous  :  "  II  sommeille  ;  -* is  * 

Son  dur  labeur  est  acheve\  "  *';;  v>> 

Ou  piutot  dites :  "lls'ereffle; 
II  voit  oe  qu'il  a  tant  r6ve\" 

Ne  dlfendes  pas  ma  mlmoire, 
Si  la  haine  sur  moi  s'abat ; 
Je  suis  content,  j*ai  ma  victoire  ; 
J'ai  combattu  le  bon  combat. 


Ceux  qui  font  de  viles  moreures 
A  mon  nom  sont-ils  attaches, 
Laisse*  les  faire ;  oes  blessures 
Peut-£tre  couvrent  mes  pecbis. 

Je  suis  en  paix ;  laisses-les  faire ! 
Tnnt  qu*ils  n'auront  pas  tout  vomi, 
C'est  que,—  Dieu  soit  b6ni !— poustiere, 
Je  suis  encor  leur  ennemi. 

Dieu  soit  b^ni !  ma  voix  sonore 
Persecute  encor  oes  menteurs ! 
Ce  qu'ils  insultent,  je  l'honore, 
Je  d6mens  leurs  cris  imposteurs ; 

Je  fais  un  chemin  dans  leur  fanges, 
A  leurs  captifs  je  rends  le  jour ; 
Je  suis  l'envoye  des  bons  anges 
Vers  les  eoeurs  ou  naltra  1'ainour. 


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Nutshell  Biograms.  206 

Quant  a  ma  Tie,  elle  fufc  doaoe  : 
Lea  ondes  du  ciel  font  fleurir 
Sur  Parade  pierre  la  mousse, 
Sur  les  remords,  le  repentir. 

Dans  ma  lutte  laborious©, 
La  foi  eoutint  mon  ccaur  oharrae* ; 
Ce  f  ut  done  une  vie  heureuse, 
Puisque  enfin  j'ai  toujour*  aime. 

Je  fus  pecheur,  et  sur  ma  route, 
H6las !  j'ai  chancel^  souvent ; 
Mais  grftce  a  Dieu,  vdnqueur  du  doute, 
Je  suis  mort  ferme  et  penitent 

J  espfcre  en  Jesu*    Sur  la  terre, 
Je  n'ai  pas  rougi  do  sa  loi ; 
Au  dernier  jour,  deyant  son  Pere, 
H  ne  rougira  pas  de  moi. 

Let  my  pen  be  at  my  side, 

At  my  feet  this  book  be  hid, 
And  the  Crucifix,  my  pride, 

On  my  heart ;  then  close  the  lid. 

After  the  last  prayer  is  said 

Put  the  dear  Cross  over  me, 
And  these  words  above  my  head, 

"  I  believed,  and  now  I  see." 

Say  among  you,  "Peace,  he  sleeps, 

His  hard  labour  now  is  o'er," 
Or,  rather,  M  Banquet  now  he  keeps, 

He  has  waked  to  sleep  no  more." 

If  man's  hatred  then  attack, 

Make  you  no  defensive  *ign, 
Do  not  strike,  I  pray  you,  back; 

I  have  fought;  the  victory's  mine. 

Heed  not  the  vile  bites  they  take 

On  my  name ;  I  heed  them  not ; 
I  have  sinned,  their  wounds  may  make 

Cover  for  some  sinful  spot. 

I  am  at  peace ;  then  let  them  rage— 

If  they  have  venom  yet  to  spill ; 
War  against  them  I  still  wage, 

And,  though  dust,  they  fear  me  still. 

God  be  praised!     My  voice  still  loud 

Gives  the  lie  to  men  of  lies  ; 
My  Treasure's  hated  by  this  crowd, 

I  scorn  their  false  and  devilish  cries .' 


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206  Harmless  Novels. 

I  made  ft  pathway  through  their  mud, 
To  their  slayes  I  showed  the  mora, 

Bent  by  good  angels;  and  the  flood 
Of  light  struck  hearts  where  Lore  is  born. 

In  my  life,  sweet  Heajen's  rains 
On  hard  stones  made  soft  moss  grow , 

From  m j  heart  remorseful  pains 
Brought  penanee-flowers  bj  their  flow. 

In  my  hard  and  f errant  strife. 
Faith  up-bore  my  charmed  heart ; 

Mine  was,  then,  a  happy  life, 
I  hare  always  lored  my  part. 

I  was  a  sinner ;  in  the  road, 
Alas  !  sometime,  I  leaned  towards  wrong, 

But  God,  the  victor,  raised  doubt's  load ; 
I  died,  repenting,  in  faith  strong. 

I  hope  in  Jesus ;  never  here 
Hare  I  of  Him  denial  shown — 

Before  His  Father,  now  no  fear 
That  He  will  shame  His  child  to  own. 


HARMLESS    NOVELS. 
By  the  Present  Writer. 

THERE  is  one  class  of  the  community  which  is,  I  think,  very 
unfairly  judged  and,  in  fact,  slandered — namely,  the  novel- 
reading  public.  Novel-reading  ladies  are  generally  denounced  as 
indolent  idlers.  They  seem  to  me,  on  the  contrary,  to  be  most 
laborious  and  indeed  courageous.  It  is  no  joke  to  get  through  a 
three- volume  novel;  but  to  keep  pace  with  the  supply  of  new 
novels  furnished  by  a  circulating  library,  like  Mudie's  in  London, 
or  Greene's  in  Dublin,  requires  a  courage  and  perseverance  and 
strength  of  mind  and  body  which  might  achieve  very  solid  work 
if  applied  in  some  other  sphere  of  labour. 

This  is  a  branch  of  intellectual  labour  from  which  the  present 
writer  shrinks.  His  novel-reading  days  are  over,  and  they  can 
hardly  be  said  to  have  ever  begun.     Not  that  he  can  claim  on  this 


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Harmless  Novels.  207 

point  any  resemblance  to  the  late  Dr.  Whitehead,  so  long  the 
distinguished  Vice-President  of  Maynooth,  who  once  told  him  that 
he  found  it  morally  impossible  to  get  through  a  novel.  He  tried 
conscientiously  even  so  late  as  the  publication  of  "  Middiemarch." 
He  applied  his  mind  to  it  as  he  would  to  Horace  in  one  depart- 
ment, or  De  Lugo  in  another ;  but  he  broke  down  utterly — when 
he  had  reached  the  fifth  chapter,  he  could  not  remember  who  the 
various  characters  were.  Very  different  was  the  "  President "  of 
those  days,  Dr.  C.  W.  Russell ;  and  very  different,  indeed,  is  the 
difficulty  that  the  present  writer  feels  in  the  matter.  But  still  he 
cannot  urge  the  plea,  experto  crede  Roberto,  as  regards  all  the 
observations  he  may  venture  to  make  about  harmless  novels.  His 
judgments  will  generally  be  formed  on  external  authority.  But 
where  he  is  able  to  vouch  personally  for  a  novel  he  will  not  be 
slow  to  do  so. 

The  question  may  practically  arise  in  two  ways:  first,  with 
regard  to  the  books  to  be  admitted  into  parochial  libraries  and 
libraries  of  Children  of  Mary,  &c. ;  and,  secondly,  with  regard  to 
•the  books  that  might  be  recommended  or  permitted  to  those  who 
subscribe  to  any  ordinary  public  lending  library. 

It  was  the  first  of  these  occasions  which  suggested  the  present 
paper.  A  bishop  wrote  to  me,  two  years  ago :  "  It  is  proposed  to 
add  the  enclosed  to  a  parochial  circulating  library.  Would  you 
kindly  tell  me  if  there  be  any  objectionable  volume  in  the.  list  f 
*  David  Copperfield '  is  the  only  one  I  have  read  of  the  lot."  And 
some  years  earlier,  a  young  priest — who  has  just  been  named  as 
"  one  of  three  "  (like  the  Ancient  Mariner's  victim),  and  not  last 
of  the  three,  but  at  the  other  end — wrote  to  the  same  purport.  I 
give  his  words  in  full,  though  some  of  them  are  irrelevant : — 

"  "Would  you  be  so  good  as  to  give  me  the  names  of  a  few 
Catholic  novelists  whose  books  are  readable  f  Perhaps  my  request 
might  suggest  a  little  paper  for  the  Irish  Monthly,  which,  by- 
ithe-way,  goes  beyond  all  our  expectations.  I  hope  that  financially 
it  has  not  disappointed  you.  The  reason  of  my  inquiry  just  now 
is,  that  I  am  trying  to  put  a  library  together  for  our  Catholic 
Institute,  and  I  feel  rather  squeamish  about  the  books  I  set  in 
•circulation." 

If  I  had  known  that  my  correspondent  was  to  be  raised  to  the 
•episcopate,  I  might  not  have  allowed  his  suggestion  to  simmer  in 
my  mind  and  his  letter  to  lurk  in  one  of  my  pigeon-holes  for  eight 
jeare,  especially  as  it  puts  the  question  in  its  easiest  form— "Name 
4  few  Catholic  novelists  whose  books  are  readable/9 

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208  Harmless  Novels. 

Catholic  and  readable  may  here  have  two  principal  meanings- 
assigned  to  them.  "  Readable  *'  may  mean,  "  sufficiently  moral  to 
be  read  without  danger ;"  and,  again,  "  sufficiently  clever  to  be 
read  with  some  intellectual  profit/9  I  once,  in  the  book-notices  of 
this  Magazine,  expressed  surprise  why  a  publisher  of  taste  and 
repute  would  take  the  trouble  to  publish  certain  stories  which 
were  innocent,  indeed,  in  the  ordinary  sense,  but  also  innocent  in 
the  other  sense  of  being  brainless.  Neither  publisher  nor  book 
was  named ;  but  a  postcard  came  from  the  firm  really  aimed  at : 
"because  authors  pay  for  the  printing  thereof/'  Still,  it  is  a  pity 
that  such  tares  should  spoil  the  character  of  good  Catholic  wheat. 

In  the  second  place,  a  Catholic  novelist  may  either  be  a  Catholic 
who  writes  novels  for  the  general  literary  market,  or  else  one  who 
lays  his  or  her  story  in  Catholic  scenes,  alludes  to  Catholic  feelings 
and  customs,  and  this  without  aiming  at  the  construction  of  a 
strictly  religious  novel.  And  it  is  one  of  the  proofs  of  Protestant 
ascendency  in  literature,  as  everywhere  else,  that  Catholics  are 
supposed  to  receive  parsons  and  other  Protestant  dignitaries  as 
parts  of  general  literature,  whereas  any  fair  delineation  of  a  priest 
or  any  discussion  of  Catholic  subjects,  would  be  likely  to  mark  a 
book  off  as  distinctively  Catholic  and  meant  only  to  be  read  by 
Catholics. 

Let  us  make  a  first  attempt  at  a  list  of  Catholic  novelists,  in 
the  widest  sense — Catholics  who  have  written  novels.  We  need 
not,  for  the  present,  mind  the  translated  stories  of  Manzoni, 
Veuillot,  Conscience,  Fenian  Caballero,  and  Mrs.  Craven  (in  spite 
of  her  English  name).  The  following  Catholics  have  contributed 
to  the  literature  of  fiction  in  the  English  language: — Cardinal 
Wiseman,  Cardinal  Newman,  Lady  Georgiana  Fullerton,  Lady 
Herbert,  Mrs.  Cashel  Hoey,  Cecilia  Caddell,  Rosa  Mulholland* 
Miss  Drane  (Mother  Raphael),  Julia  Kavanagh,  Mrs.  Charles 
Martin,  Fanny  Taylor,  Alice  O'Hanlon,  Theo.  Gift,  Miss  Laffan, 
Frances  Noble,  Kathleen  O'Meara  (the  real  name  of  "  Grace 
Ramsay"),  Clara  Mulholland,  Fanny  Gallaher,  Miss  Brew,  Miss 
Alice  Corkran,  Miss  Owens  Blackburne,  Lady  Gertrude  Douglas,. 
Miss  M.  A.  Tincker,  Christian  Reid,  the  Hon.  Mrs.  Alfred  Mont- 
gomery, and  many  others  whom  we  may  add  hereafter,  like  the 
clever  author  of  "  Addie's  Husband ;"  Gerald  Griffin,  John  Banim, 
Charles  Kickham,  Richard  Dowling,  Percy  Fitzgerald,  Justin 
McCarthy,  E.  H.  Dering,  .Stephen  J.  MacKenna,  Maurice  Egan, 
John  Boyle  O'Reilly,  with  a  long  etcetera  in  the  masculine  gender* 

We  put  first  the  authors  of  "  Fabiola  "  and  of  "  Callfeta" ;  and 

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.Harmless  Novel*.  209 

we  moat  not  omit  the  author  of  "  Ailey  Moore/'  and  of  two  other 
less  successful  tales,  Dean  O'Brien,  of  Limerick,  whose  life  is 
summarised  in  the  sixteenth  of  our  Nutshell  Biograms,  in  another 
page  of  this  number.  Father  Anderdon's  "  Braoton  "  deserves  a 
place  also  in  our  list,  with  Father  Thomas  Finlay's  "  Chances  of 
War.?', 

We  have  taken  no  pains  to  make  this  list  complete ;  for,  in  any 
case,  we  should  certainly  be  obliged  hereafter  to  notice  omissions 
in  it  Miss  Mary  Healy,  who,  according  to  the  reviewers,  seems 
to  have  done  some  excellent  work,  has  a  very  Catholic  and  Irish 
name,  and  so  has  Miss  May  Byrne,  of  whom  we  know  nothing, 
but  whom  we  notice  in  a  recent  catalogue. 

The  first  remark  that  may  be  made  upon  the  foregoing  list  is, 
that,  with  the  exception  of  the  two  cardinals  and  some  of  the 
ladies  mentioned,  these  writers  are  Catholic  novelists  only  in  the 
wider  sense  described  before.  Percy  Fitzgerald  and  Justin 
M'Carthy  write  for  the  same  world  as  Edmund  Yates  and  Wilkie 
Collins.  Mrs.  Cashel  Hoey's  novels  have  generally  run  their 
course  in  A  U  the  Tear  Round,  before  entering  on  an  individual 
existence  in  the  circulating  library.  We  need  not,  therefore, 
expect  anything  directly  Catholic  in  them;  but  her  faith  has 
excluded  the  objectionable  things  to  be  found  in  the  writings  of 
several  clever  women  of  the  day.  We  do  not  purpose  holding  up 
any  names  to  reprobation ;  for  this  reason,  amongst  others,  that 
such  denunciations  often,  in  this  fallen  world,  serve  merely  as  an 
advertisement  for  the  thing  denounced. 

We  have  purposely  refrained  from  including  in  our  list  of 
Catholic  writers  two  names  which,  we  are  glad  to  say,  ought  to 
find  a  place  there — E.  D.  Gerard  and  Stella  Austin.  The  latter 
has*  only  entered  the  Catholic  Church  quite  recently ;  but  even 
before  that  happy  change  we  find  her  name  in  a  list  issued  by  St. 
Anselm's  Society  for  the  Diffusion  of  Good  Books — which,  indeed, 
puts  this  disclaimer  in  front : — "  This  List  has  no  claim  to  any 
authority,  but  the  books  thus  selected  have  been  suggested  by 
persons  whose  judgment  is  entitled  to  respect."  In  page  3  of 
List  E,  Parochial  library,  are  enumerated  the  following  tales  by 
Stella  Austin:  "Stumps,"  "Somebody,"  "Bags  and  Tatters," 
"For  Old  Sake's  Sake,"  and  "Our  Next  Door  Neighbour."  If 
these  were  recommended  to  young  Catholic  readers  before,  there  is 
greater  comfort  and  security  now  that  the  author  has  become  one 
of  ufr~a  child  of  our  Mother. 


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210  Harmless  Novek. 

Many  of  our  novel-reading  readers  will  be  surprised  and 
delighted  at  the  other  announcement— namely,  that  E.  D.  Gerard 
is  a  Catholic.  We  ought,  indeed,  to  use  the  plural ;  for  some  of 
the  literary  journals  announced,  last  year,  that  the  initials  before 
this  name  represent  two  sisters,  the  joint  authors  of  the  three 
very  successful  novels  which,  having  first  brightened  Blackwood's 
Magazine,  have  continued  their  success  in  three- volume  editions 
and,  finally,  in  cheap  one- volume  editions.  The  three  books  are 
44  Beggar  My  Neighbour,'*  "Reata,"  and,  finally,  u  The  Waters  erf 
Hercules."  Plenty  of  interesting  plot,  of  lively  chat,  of  vivid 
scenery — chiefly  foreign,  not  described  at  second-hand — these  are 
some  of  the  qualities  which  have  made  these  three  novels  bril- 
liantly successful,  and  which  guarantee  for  their  successors  a  brisk 
demand  at  the  circulating  libraries.  Though,  of  course,  they  do 
not  touch  on  anything  religious  and  are  of  the  world  worldly,  it  is 
a  comfort  that  their  Catholic  authorship  excludes  everything  like 
that  dubious  treatment  of  dangerous  topics  which  certain  feminine 
writers  affect  as  a  proof  of  originality  and  masculine  vigour. 

Even  those  among  the  readers  of  this  paper  who  are  patrons 
of  circulating  libraries  will  be  unfamiliar  with  some  of  the  names 
that  we  grouped  together  a  moment  ago.  For  instance,  Miss  M. 
W.  Brew  needs  to  be  introduced  as  the  author  of  a  novel  published 
rather  recently  by  Chapman  and  Hall,  in  three  volumes,  under  the 
title  of  "  The  Chronicles  of  Castle  Cloyne ;  or,  Pictures  of  the 
Minister  People,"  of  which  two  English  authorities,  not  unduly 
prejudiced  in  favour  of  Irish  literary  work,  have  judged  as  follows. 
The  Athenceum  says : 

One  could  hardly  wish  for  a  better  Irish  story,  more  touching,  more  amusing, 
more  redolent  of  the  soil,  than  "  The  Chronicles  of  Oastle  Cloyne."  There 
can  be  no  doubt  that  the  author  is  a  pleasant  romancer,  who  knows  how  to  set 
down  what  he  has  seen  and  heard,  and  who  has  a  heart  to  appreciate  both  the 
>ad  and  the  lively  moods  of  humanity. 

And  according  to  the  Morning  Post : 

There  is  a  genuine  tone  in  this  well- written  novel  which  renders  the  author's 
"  Pictures  of  the  Munster  People  "  deeply  interesting.  .  •  .  There  is  humour 
and  pathos  in  these  sketches  of  the  Irish  peasantry.  .  •  •  Works  of  this  kind 
as  rich  in  "  backbone  "  as  excellent  in  detail,  are  assured  of  being  well  received 
by  the  intelligent  portion  of  the  novel-reading  public,  already  weary  of  mere 
sensational  romance* 

We  have  reason  to  believe  that  Miss  Brew's  Irish  pictures  are  not 
painted  with  the  gloomy  colours  of  which  JohnBanim  was  too  loud. 


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Harmless  Novels.  211 

It  is  strange  that  one  of  the  best  stories  of  Irish  life  was  written 
"by  one  who  scarcely  spent  in  Ireland  a  month  out  of  all  her  life,  of 
which  a  slight  summary  is  given  in  our  second  handful  of  Nutshell 
Biograms.  We  mean  Miss  Annie  Keary,  author  of  "Castle 
Daly/9  which  is  laid  in  Ireland  about  the  eventful  year  1848,  and 
refers  in  no  ungenerous  spirit  to  the  Young  Ireland  movement. 
We  can  give  our  personal  guarantee  for  the  high  merit  of  this 
book  and  its  suitableness  for  any  library  that  admits  fiction.  We 
•can  also  give  high  praise  to  Oldbury  by  the  same  author,  as  well 
-as  to  a  smaller  work  meant  for  younger  readers  "A  York  and 
Lancaster  Rose."  "  Clemency  Franklyn  "  and  •'  Janet's  Home  " 
we  can  only  recommend  on  the  ground  of  being  written  by  Miss 
Keary,  who  always  shows  a  good,  religious  spirit,  especially  in  her 
last  work  "A  Doubting  Heart."  Her  life  by  her  sister  does 
not  seem  very  successful,  and  it  shows  that  Annie  Keary  was 
not  so  near  to  the  Catholic  Faith  as  we  had  imagined.  Her 
•dearest  friend,  with  whom  her  mind  had  travelled  step  by  step, 
became  a  Catholic  and  then  a  Carmelite  nun;  but  she  remained 
behind. 

There  is  a  caution  which  may  be  given  at  this  point.  After 
reading  a  book  written  in  a  very  pure  and  good  spirit,  one  is  prone 
to  generalise  and  to  be  well  disposed  to  all  the  works  of  the  same 
writer.  Mrs.  Burnett's  "  Louisiana  "  is  most  innocent  and  beauti- 
ful, and  so,  too,  is  the  more  lively  and  more  worldly  "  Fair  Bar- 
barian ;  "  but  we  believe  that  other  works  by  this  clever  American 
lady  are  not  so  absolutely  unobjectionable.  In  the  same  way  The 
Month,  which  is  properly  austere  on  this  point,  praises  highly  "  A 
Village  Commune  "  by  a  certain  famous  lady  whose  other  works 
are  such  that  we  do  not  care  to  print  her  name  in  the  present  con- 
text. So  also  the  French  author,  Hal^vy,  wrote  "  the  Abta  Con- 
«stantin,"  a  pure  and  simple  tale,  says  the  New  York  Tablet,  but 
-everything  else  written  by  this  witty  Frenchman  is  bad,  utterly 
had. 

One  of  the  women  novelists  ennumerated  earlier  in  this  paper 
is  Miss  Tincker,  whose  peculiar  name  is  represented  on  her  tide- 
T»ges  by  the  initials  "  M.  A.  T."  Many  Catholic  lending  libraries, 
even  in  this  country,  possess  her  "  House  of  Yorke,"  her  "  Grapes 
-and  Thorns  "  and  her  "  Six  Sunny  Months."  Many  shorter  tales 
from  her  very  graceful  pen  have  appeared  in  The  Catholic  World* 
jmd  have  been  gathered  into  separate  volumes  in  the  United  States. 
The  three  that  we  have  named  are  the  best  rivals  that  our  American 
brethren  can  pit  against  Oranthj  Manor  and  Constance  Sherwood. 

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212  Harmless  Novels. 

This  gifted  lady  is  a  convert  from  some  sect  of  Transcendent  alia  te.. 
We  are  sorry  to  say  that  we  have  been  warned  against  some  later 
tales  of  hers  written  in  a  different  spirit. 

Two  ladies  with  such  Irish  names  as  Julia  Kavanagh  and 
Kathleen  O'Meara,  have  very  few  traces  of  the  Irish  accent  in 
their  writings ;  but  this  is  accounted  for  by  the  fact  that  both  of 
them  have  chiefly  lived  on  the  continent.  Miss  Julia  Eavanagh  was 
born  at  Thurles,  about  the  year  1824,  and  died  two  or  three  years 
ago.  Miss  Kathleen  O'Meara  (who  was  so  ill-advised  as  to  call 
herself  "  Grace  Ramsay  "  on  some  of  her  title  pages)  is  still  living 
and  working ;  we  do  not  know  where  she  was  born  and  still  less 
when.  Miss  Eavanagh's  long  list  of  books  of  fiction  and  biography 
may  safely  be  used  in  ordering  new  books  for  &.  Catholic  Lending 
Library,  though  she  does  not  put  forward  her  faith  or  her  country 
in  any  of  them.  On  the  other  hand  Miss  O'Meara  is  as  Catholio 
in  her  tales  as  in  her  admirable  biographies  of  Frederic  Ozanam 
and  Dr.  Thomas  Grant  of  Southwark. 

"  Theo.  Gift "  (who  ought  to  allow  herself  to  be  known  as  Miss 
Dora  Havers)  is  a  frequent  contributor  to  the  best  London  maga- 
zines, and  ber  novels  have  appeared  under  the  auspices  of  the  regular 
novel-publishing  firms.  Two  at  least  of  them  have  come  out  also 
among  Tinsley's  two  shilling  novels — "  A  Matter-of-Fact  Girl/* 
and  "  Visited  on  the  Children."  We  need  not  expect  in  them 
therefore,  as  we  have  said  of  another  writer,  anything  distinctively 
Catholic,  but  we  believe  they  can  all  be  recommended  as  written 
in  a  good  spirit,  and  free  from  everything  objectionable  in  plot  or 
language. 

Another  pseudonym  or  pen-name  in  our  list,  is  Christian  Reid, 
whom  many,  we  are  told  by  an  American  newspaper,  regard  as  the 
best  writer  of  fiction  among  American  women.  She  lives  at 
Salisbury,  in  North  Carolina,  and  a  newspaper  correspondent 
writing  from  that  place  to  the  Raleigh  Chronicle,  oonfides  to  us  the 
following  personal  details : — 

When  the  body  of  Colonel  Charles  Fisher  was  brought  home  from  the  battle- 
field of  Manassas,  his  sister,  Miss  Christine  Fisher,  forbade  any  one  entering  the 
room  where  he  lay  until  she  had  finished  a  portrait  of  him.  Then,  when  he 
was  buried,  she  made  herself  a  mother  to  his  children.  She  is  a  devout  Roman 
Catholic  and  a  recluse.  But  for  the  care  of  her  brother's  children  she  would 
have  taken  the  veil.  The  children  were  Miss  Frances  Fisher,  and  Mr.  Fred 
and  Miss  Annie — the  latter  being  twins.  Miss  Frances  Fisher  became  "  Christian 
Keid;"  and  war,  which  wrought  her  irreparable  loss,  brought  us  our  chief 
literary  renown. 

Miss  Fisher  herself  lives  an  almost  retired  life,  not  from  inclination   so- 


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Harmless  Novels.  21& 

much  as  because  she  is  very  busy.  Dnrxng  those  years  since  she  began  to  write 
fiction  she  has  been  as  industrious  as  the  busiest  man  in  North  Carolina.  The 
work  has  not  been  a  recreation,  but  a  creation,  aod  therefore  hard  and  con- 
tinuous labour.  The  people  of  Salisbury,  without  reference  to  creed,  not  only 
esteem  her  highly,  but  even  regard  her  with  a  sort  of  homage.  "  Bless  your 
life,"  said  a  gentleman  to  me,  "  tnere  isn't  a  man  in  Salisbury  who  would  not 
pull  off  his  best  coat  for  Miss  Fanny  Fisher  to  walk  on,  and  wish  it  were  made 
of  better  cloth  to  be  so  honoured  I " 

The  latest  publication  of  Christian  Reid  is  "  A  Child  of  Mary  " 
reprinted  from  the  Ave  Maria  ;  but  her  larger  and  more  elaborate 
works  are  pure  novels,  in  both  the  meanings  of  that  phrase.  The 
most  easily  procurable  in  this  country  is  Armine ;  and  the  names 
of  others  are  "Hearts  and  Hands,"  " Mabel  Lee,°  "Morton 
House/'  "Valerie  Aylmer,"  "A  Daughter  of  Bohemia/'  and 
"  Bonnie  Kate."  We  have  not  read  them,  but  we  have  no  hesita- 
tion in  accepting  the  careful  and  highly  favourable  estimate  of 
such  conscientious  American  critics  as  Mr.  Maurice  Egan  and  the 
reviewers  in  the  fine  Paulist  Magazine  of  New  York,  The  Catholic 
World,  one  of  whom  wrote  as  follows  in  July,  1884 : — 

The  author  of  Morton  Home  has  made  a  name  in  American  fiction  which  is 
synonymous  with  purity  of  feeling,  elegance  of  style,  keeuness  without  satirical 
sharpness  of  observation,  and  the  quality  of  interest.  Morton  Howe  had  every 
quality  that  constitutes  a  good  novel.  Valerie  Aylmer%  A  Daughter  of  Bohemia, 
and  Bonnie  Kate  were  novels  which,  if  they  formed  a  genre  for  American 
writers,  would  raise  American  light  literature  from  the  slough  of  despond  in 
which  it  wallows.  It  is  a  great  deal  to  have  a  pen  like  that  of  Christian  Reid 
wielded  on  the  side  of  truth.  She  is  skilful  in  all  the  resources  of  an  art  so 
potent  in  a  time  when  everybody  that  reads  reads  novels,  more  or  less.  She 
possesses  taste  and  knows  how  to  be  reticent  in  the  use  of  her  resources,  ft  is 
rarely  that  a  work  of  fiction  so  pure  and  elevated  in  tone,  and  so  worthy  of  the 
pen  of  an  artist  in  words  as  Armine  is  issued,  even  from  the  Catholic  press. 

When  preparing  to  prosecute  Palmer,  the  Hugely  murderer,  Sir 
Alexander  Cockburn  studied  minutely  the  effects  of  the  various 
poisons,  and  submitted  himself  to  cross-examination  on  the  subject 
by  friendly  experts.  We  do  not  consider  it  our  duty  to  study 
poisonous  literature  ift  order  to  be  qualified  to  prosecute  criminate 
or  to  warn  our  readers  against  special  dangers.  Nor  do  we  feel 
called  upon  to  enter  into  the  delicate  question  of  the  limitations 
within  which  such  reading  can  be  indulged  in,  all  this  differs  so 
much  in  different  circumstances.  To  Mr.  Mallock's  famous  query 
Is  Life  worth  living  ?  Mr.  Punch  replied  that  it  depended  greatly 
on  the  liver.    So,  too,  the  goodness  and  badness  of  such  reading. 

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214  Harmless  Novels. 

depends  to  a  certain  extent  on  the  disposition,  education,  and  duties 
of  the  readers.  Addressing  lately  young  University  students, 
Lord  Iddesleigh  (Sir  Stafford  Northcote)  exhorted  them  to  apply 
to  novels  especially  the  art  of  dipping  and  skipping. 

There  is  probably  no  form  of  idleness  so  seductive  or  so  enervating  to  the 
mind  as  indiscriminate  novel  reading.  Tet  some  of  the  best  and  most  truly 
instructive  works  in  the  world  belong  to  this  class.  From'"  Don  Quixote  "  to 
41  Waverly,M  from  "The  Vicar  of  Wakefield"  to  "The  Oaxtons,"  from  Miss  Austen, 
or  Miss  Edgeworth,  or  Miss  Ferrier  to  Charlotte  Bronte"  or  George  Eliot,  you 
will  find  what  Horace  found  in  those  great  Homeric  poems— humour  and  wisdom 
and  a  keen  insight  into  the  strength  and  the  weakness  of  the  human  character. 
Think  what  a  mine  of  wealth  we  possess  in  the  novels  of  your  own  great 
master.  What  depths  he  sounds,  what  humours  he  makes  us  acquainted  with  I 
From  Jeanie  Deans  sacrificing  herself  to  her  sisterly  love  in  all  but  her  uncom- 
promising devotion  to  truth  to  the  picture  of  the  family  affection  and  over- 
mastering grief  in  the  hut  of  poor  Steenie  Mucklebackit,  or  again  from  the 
fidelity  of  Meg  Merrilies  to  that  of  Caleb  Balderstone,  you  have  in  these  and  a 
hundred  other  instances  examples  of  the  great  power  of  discerning  genius  to 
seize  upon  the  secrets  of  the  human  heart  and  to  reveal  the  inner  meanings  of 
the  events  which  history  records  upon  its  surface,  but  which  we  do  not  feel  that 
we  really  understand  till  some  finer  mind  has  clothed  the  dry  bones  with  flesh 
and  blood  and  presented  them  to  us  in  appropriate  raiment.  1  will  permit  myself 
to  make  but  one  more  remark  on  Sir  Walter  Scott,  for  I  am  always  a  little  in 
danger  of  running  wild  about  him,  and  it  is  this : — Our  ancestors  and  ancestresses 
read  for  their  light  literature  such  books  as  the  "  Grand  Cyrus,"  and  the 
Countess  of  Pembroke's  "Arcadia."  I  never  tried  the  former.  I  have  made 
one  or  two  attempts  in  the  latter  without  much  success.  But  I  have  much 
sufficient  general  knowledge  of  their  dimensions  and  of  their  character  to  be 
sure  that  no  one  with  a  volume  of  Scott  at  hand  would  ever  deliberately  lay  it 
aside  in  favour  of  either  of  them.  May  I  not  hope  that  the  same  preference 
which  you  instinctively  afford  to  him  over  works  such  as  those  I  have  referred  to 
you  will  also  extend  to  him  in  comparison  with  the  great  floating  mass  of  un- 
substantial and  ephemeral  literature,  which  is  in  truth  undeserving  of  the  name, 
but  which  is  unfortunately  attractive  enough  to  tempt  you  to  choke  your  minds 
with  inferior  rubbish. 

This  extract  will  not  be  considered  too  long  by  our  readers, 
whatever  they  may  think  of  the  discussion  which  precedes  it  and 
which  it  must  for  the  present  bring  to  an  end. 


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A  SONNET  BY  ARVERS. 

MON  &me  a  son  secret,  ma  vie  a  son  mystere ; 
Un  amour  6ternel  en  un  moment  concu: 
Le  mal  est  sons  espoir,  aussi  j'ai  da  le  taire, 
Et  celle  qui  Pa  fait  n'en  a  jamais  rien  su. 

Hllas  I  j'aurai  passe*  pres  d'elle  inapercu, 
Toujoura  a  ses  cdtes,  et  pourtant  solitaire, 
Et  j'aurai  jusqu'au  bout  fait  mon  temps  sur  la  terre, 
N'osant  rien  demander  et  nfeyant  rien  recu. 

Four  elle,  quoique  Diea  l'ait  faite  douce  et  tendre, 
Elle  ira  son  chemin,  distraite  et  sans  entendre 
Ce  murmure  d'amour  e*leve*  sur  see  pas ; 

A  l'austdre  devoir,  pieusement  fiddle, 

Elle  dira,  lisant  ces  vers  tout  remplis  d'elle : 

"  Quelle  est  done  cette  femme  P  "  et  ne  comprendra  pas. 

The  Sams  in  English. 

My  soul  its  secret  bears,  to  all  unknown — 

A  love  eternal  by  a  look  conceived ; 
My  cureless  wound  shall  be  to  no  one  shown, 

E'en  she  who  gave  it  is  the  most  deceived. 

Ah !  me,  I  live  nigh  to  her  unperceived — 
Though  ever  at  her  side,  still  quite  alone, 
And,  when  I  die  and  all  my  days  have  flown, 

Shall  never  aught  have  asked  nor  aught  received. 

But  she  whom  God  has  loving  made  and  kind 
Will  tread  her  quiet  path,  for  ever  blind 
To  love  which  fain  her  every  step  would  bless. 

Sweet  maid  t  her  heart  is  fixed  on  God  above. 
Shell  read  these  lines  I've  written  of  my  Love — 
"  Who  is  she  P  "  she  will  ask,  nor  ever  guess. 

W.  H.  E. 


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NEW  BOOKS. 

Two  large  and  handsome  volumes,  published  by  Burns  and  Oates,  tell 
the  story  of  "  Flora,  the  Roman  Martyr,"  of  which  the  authorship  is 
not  disclosed.  Many  of  the  characters  are  fictitious,  but  Origen  and 
St.  Laurence  appear  on  the  scene.  Though  the  eccentric  punctuation 
creates  a  bad  impression  in  some  places,  the  writer  seems  to  have  taste 
and  learning ;  but  something  like  genius  would  be  required  to  give  a 
living  interest  to  a  half  classical  half  Christian  historical  romance  of  this 
description.  If  "  Flora  "  can  be  called  a  novel,  it  may  certainly  be 
classed  among  the  "  harmless  novels  "  of  which  there*  is  question  some 
pages  earlier  in  this  Magazine. 

The  imprint  of  the  New  York  Catholic  Publication  Society  is  upon 
the  title  page  of  "The  Keys  of  the  Kingdom,  or  the  Unfailing 
Promise,"  by  the  Bev.  James  J.  Moriarty,  LL.D.,  of  Syracuse,  New 
York,  whose  previous  works  "All  for  Love,"  and  "  Stumbling-Blocks 
made  Stepping-Stones  on  the  road  to  the  Catholic  Faith,"  have  secured 
a  very  large  circulation.  Dr.  Moriarty' s  new  book  is  a  treatise  on  the 
Notes  of  the  True  Church,  thrown  into  a  popular  form  for  American 
use.  The  type  is  very  large,  the  spaces  between  the  lines  unusually 
wide,  and  the  lines  in  a  page  unusually  few.  The  matter  might  be 
very  readily  printed  in  a  very  much  smaller  and  cheaper  volume.  But 
the  author  perhaps  knows  his  public  best.  May  God  make  use  of  this 
book  to  bring  some  souls  into  the  bosom  of  the  One  Church  Holy, 
Catholic,  and  Apostolical. 

Another  American  book  of  a  very  different  kind  is  "Vapid 
Vapourings"  by  Justin  Thyme.  It  is  published  at  the  press  of  th» 
Notre  Dame  University,  Indiana,  and  may  fairly  be  laid  to  the  charge 
of  one  of  the  learned  Professors  thereof.  The  author  indeed  does  not 
pretend  that  his  real  name  appears  on  the  title  page,  for  on  hearing 
of  Miss  Rosa  Mulholland's  "  Vagrant  Verses  "  he  relieved  his  feelings 
to  the  following  effect  in  an  American  Magazine : — 

I  scarcely  had  issued  my  pages 

Of  slight,  unpretentious  rhyme, 
When  a  man  in  New  York  it  enrages, 

liy  theft  of  his  name  "  Justin  Thyme." 
He  writes  horticultural  verses 

On  celery,  spinach,  and  such ; 
And  I  think  neither  of  us  the  worse  is 

For  the  innocent  error — not  much. 
But  I  fancied  my  alliteration 

Was  something  unique  in  its  way, 
That  a  marvellous  imagination 

And  a  powerful  brain  would  display. 


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Notes  ^on  New  Books.  217 

Yet  here  once  again  I'm  checkmated — 

Cast,  down  from  my  throne  in  the  air ; 
Environed  by  trials,  I'm  fated 

To  give  up  my  work  in  despair. 
The  difference,  however,  is  small,  and 

Great  intellects  always  agree, 
So  I  think  I'll  conclude,  Miss  Mulholland, 

To  leave  you  the  duplicate  V. 

Mr.  Justin  Thyme,  at  .any  rate,  has  given  us  one  of  the  brightest 
little  books  thatvwe  have  ever  come  across.  His  wit  is  very  innocent 
and  genial  and  yet  very  pointed,  though  no  doubt  we  miss  many  points 
that  tickle  oonsumedly  those  who  *dwell  near  South  Bend.  Some  of 
the  pieces,  like  the  address  to  a  Neighbouring  Editor,  remind  us  of 
Dalton  Williams'  "  Misadventures  of  a  Medical  Student "  (of  which 
probably  the  American  humourist  has  never  heard)  ;  others,  like 
"  Ask  me  not  why,"  remind  us  of  Frederic  Looker  and  Austin  Dobson, 
whom  he  has  certainly  studied.  Why  is  there  more  fun  in  the  books 
and  newspapers  of  the  United  States  than  anywhere  else  P  In  Ireland 
we  are  far  graver  in  our  tone. 

As  allusion  has  just  been  made  to  "  Vagrant  Verses,"  by  this 
"  vapid  "  American,  we  may  quote  a  more  serious  American  criticism 
on  Miss  Mulholland's  Poems.  The  Boston  Pilot  is  one  of  the  cleverest 
journals  in  the  world  and  has  a  man  of  genius  for  its  editor.  An 
elaborate  review  in  its  issue  for  March  6th,  begins  thus : — 

"For  some  years  past,  Rosa  Mulholland,  the  novelist,  has  been  a  veritable 
Scheherasade  to  the  sea-divided  Gael.  Her  stories,  appearing  in  London  or  Dublin 
publications,  have  been  promptly  reproduced  in  journals  and  magazines  throughout 
the  United  States,  Canada,  and  Australia.  Multitudes  of  readers  have  thus  been 
charmed  with  her  "  Hester's  History,"  ••The  Wicked  Woods  of  Tobereevil,"  "  Dun- 
mara,"  "  Eldergowan,"  "  Hetty  Gray,"  and  «  The  Wild  Birds  of  Killeevy." 

As  a  writer  for  children,  too,  Miss  Mulholland  has  won  enviable  fame.  Christian 
childhood  in  two  hemispheres  has  grown  in  spiritual  and  temporal  well-being  from  the 
perusal  of  her  "  Prince  and  Saviour,"  "  Holy  Childhood,"  "The  First  Christmas," 
"The  Little  Flower-Seekers,"  "Puck  and  Blossom,"  "Five  Little  Farmers,"  "Gems  for 
the  Young  from  Favourite  Poets,"  "  TheWalking  Trees,"  "Four  little  Mischiefs,"  &e. 

Put  Rosa  Mulholland,  the  poet,  is  thus  far,  everywhere  a  less  familiar  character ; 
though,  reading  the  collection  too  modestly  entitled  "  Vagrant  Verses,"  we  feel  that 
on  her  poems  will  much  of  her  fame  rest." 

The  reviewer  then  analyses  the  contents  of  the  volume,  giving 
several  extracts  from  what  he  calls  "  the  finest  poem  in  the  collection," 
the  opening  one,  "Emmet's  Love:"  with  which  he  names  as  Ids 
favourites  "Love  and  Death,"  "Stowaways,"  "Two  Strangers," 
"The  Children  of  Lir,"  "The  Builders/'  and  " Sister  Mary  of  the 
Love  of  God ;  "  and  he  concludes  his  criticism  with  this  summing  up : — 

"  Miss  Mulho'land's  poetry  is  characterised  by  grace,  sweetness,  and  rare  artistic 
finish.    It  is  oftentimes  exquisitely  tender  and  pathetic.    Borne  of  the  poems  impress 


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218  Note*  on  New  Books. 

one  with  a  sense  of  forces  in  reterYe,  and  a  conrietion  that,  fine  at  if  the  work  already- 
done,  there  is  even  better  to  be  looked  for.  To  all  this  M  iei  MulhoHand  addi  a  spirit 
purely  Catholio  and  ferrently  Irish." 

The  opinions  of  critics  nearer  home  will  be  found  farther  on. 

The  seventh-  volume  of  "The  Ave  Maria  Series"  (Notre  Dame,. 
Indiana)  pleases  us  more  than  any  of  its  predeoessora — "  The  Lepers 
of  Molokai  "  by  Charles  Warren  Stoddard.  It  is  mot  a  mere  literary 
compilation,  for  Mr.  Stoddard  had  been  for  more  than  three  years  a 
resident  in  the  Sandwich  Islands,  and  he  had  visited  Molokai  sixteen 
years  before  the  visit  which  is  described  in  this  picturesque  and  pathetic 
little  book.  This  settlement  is  reserved  for  those  who  are  stricken 
by  the  terrible  malady,  Asiatic  leprosy,  who  are  rigidly  separated  from 
all  the  rest  of  the  world.  Here,  too,  we  find  our  countrymen — no 
need  to  ask  the  nationality  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Walsh,  who  have  devoted 
themselves  to  the  nursing  of  these  poor  creatures.  The  little  book, 
which  we  earnestly  recommend,  ends  by  announcing  the  news  just 
received  from  Molokai,  that  Father  Damien,  who  has  served  in  this- 
terrible  mission  since  1874,  has  himself  at  last  been  hopelessly  smitten 
by  the  loathsome  and  incurable  disease. 

It  is  strange  that  the  "8acristan,"  who  has  compiled  "The  Server's- 
Missal,  a  Practical  Guide  for  Serving  Boys  at  Mass''  (Burns  and 
Oates),  has  unfitted  it  for  use  in  Ireland,  by  omitting  the  part  that 
boys  need  most  to  have  under  their  eyes,  the  De  Profundi*  at  the  end 
of  Mass.    Otherwise  it  is  ingeniously  arranged. 

Some  people  carry  punctuality  to  such  an  extent  as  to  make  it 
pedantic  and  almost  offensive;  others,  on  the  contrary,  have  such  a 
dread  of  being  a  little  too  soon  that  they  very  often  manage  to  be  a 
good  deal  too  late.  We  find  this  happening  frequently  with  book* 
that  are  intended  to  be  out  for  a  certain  month  or  day ;  for  instance, 
the  "Life  of  St.  Patrick"  and  "The  Little  Month  of  St.  Joseph," 
which  ought  to  have  been  in  time  to  be  announced  in  our  March  issue. 
The  former  is  a  carefully  executed  miniature  by  Father  Arthur  Ryan, 
of  Thurles;  and  the  latter,  translated  by  Mrs.  Edward  Hazelandr 
from  Father  De  Boylesve,  S.J.,  has  been  turned  out  by  Burns  and  Oates 
as  neatly  and  prettily  as  St.  Joseph's  most  fastidious  client  could  desire. 

Dean  Swift  showed  great  ingenuity  in  his  "Reflections  on  a  Broom- 
stick/'  and  the  Rev.  John  Behan  has  made  a  great  deal  out  of  an  equally 
unpromising  subj  ect — "  Dr.  Maguire's  Pamphlet. "  A  malicious  forger, 
setting  himself  to  fabricate  a  document  as  damaging  as  possible  to 
T.C.D.,  could  hardly  have  rivalled  its  first  and  only  Catholic  Fellow. 
His  critic  wields  a  witty  and  a  vigorous  pen. 

The  Bev.  P.  Sabela,  has  published  "  A  Course  of  Lenten  Sermons 
on  the  Sacred  Passion  and  Death  of  our  Lord  and  Saviour  Jesus 
Christ"  (Burns  and  Oates\  A  greater  amount  of  solid  matter  could 
hardly  be  compressed  into  eighty  pages. 


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Notes  on  New  Books.  219 

"  Ellis's  Irish  Education  Directory  and  Scholastic  Guide"  (Dublin ; 
Ponsonby),  is  a  wonderful  mass  of  educational  statistics  and  faces, 
which  those  engaged  in  the  arduous  work  of  eduoation  will  iind  in- 
valuable. 

Messrs.  M.  H.  Gill  &  Son  have  published,  in  a  very  cheap  form,  an 
Irish  translation  of  the  Catechism,  together  with  the  most  necessary 
prayers. 

The  Catholic  Truth  Society  has  published  some  useful  "Notes  on 
the  History  of  the  Catholic  Church  in  England."  Merry  and  Wise,  the 
little  magazine  for  Catholic  children,  is  improving;  and  the  "  Catholic 
Family  Annual  for  1886,"  published  by  the  New  York  Catholic  Publi- 
cation Society,  is  as  full  as  usual  of  interesting  sketches  of  Catholic 
men  and  women  and  of  other  useful  matter. 

We  can  do  no  more  than  announoe  two  new  songs,  which  have 
been  sent  to  us  from  San  Francisco  and  from  London.  Mr.  Richard 
E.  White's  "  I  love  the  old  songs  most,"  published  in  our  pages,  has 
been  set  to  music  by  Carlos  Troyer  ;  and  Odoardo  Barri  has  composed 
a  song  holy  enough  for  this  sacred  season — "  The  Sacrifice  of  Tears,' 
by  Mrs.  Meetkerke.  In  both  cases  the  words  and  the  mu<iic  are  well- 
mated  and  worthy  of  each  other. 

Small  but  clear  type,  good  arrangement,  and  a  concise  style  have 
compressed  into  113  pages  a  very  complete  Manual  of  Chemistry  for 
Beginners  (Dublin :  M.  H.  Gill  &  Son).  No  hint  is  given  as  to  the 
authorship  of  this  excellent  little  handbook. 

Messrs.  M.  H.  Gill  and  Son  of  Dublin  have  started  a  new  candi- 
date for  public  favour  in  the  spirited  race  in  which  many  London 
publishers  are  now  competing.  Certain  series  have  been  commenced 
in  which  excellent  works  are  given  at  a  very  low  price.  The 
O'Connell  Press  Popular  Library  gives  a  hundred  and  fifty  well 
printed  pages  for  three  pence  in  an  attractive  cover,  and  very  neatly 
bound  for  sixpence.  The  first  of  the  series  is  "  Irish  and  Other  Poems 
by  James  Clarence  Mangan,"  and  the  second  is  Goldsmith's  "  Vioar 
of  Wakefield."  We  wish  the  fullest  suooess  to  this  new  enterprise  of 
the  O'Connell  Press. 

The  first  book  on  our  list  for  next  month  is  the  very  important 
volume  by  Dr.  Frederick  Geo.  Lee,  just  published  by  Messrs.  Burns 
and  Oates — "  King  Edward  the  Sixth,  Supreme  Head  :  an  Historical 
Sketch."  A  first  glance  shows  that  it  is  written  in  the  spirit  of  the 
famous  "  Historical  Sketches  of  the  Reformation."  Why  does  not 
the  author  forswear  all  complicity  with  the  Church  of  Henry  and 
Edward  and  Elizabeth  and  others  just  as  ludicrously  unfit  to  be 
supreme  heads  of  any  Ohuroh? 

Vol..  xrv.  No.  164  17 


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A  CURIOUS  LITTLE  RELIC  OF  '48. 

PROBABLY  it  was  not  1848,  but  a  year  or  perhaps  two  years 
earlier.  And  yet  not  two  years,  for  the  Irish  Confederation 
was  in  being,  as  will  be  seen  from  one  of  the  following  souvenirs  of 
a  pleasant,  social  evening  spent  together  by  certain  members, 
masculine  and  feminine,  of  the  Young  Ireland  Party.  If  they 
were  plotting  a  revolution,  they  were  very  amiable  revolutionists. 

Some  writer  complained  lately  that  in  London  no  tablets  mark 
the  spots  where  famous  men  have  lived.  In  Genoa  the  house  where 
O'Connell  died  bears  such  a  memorial,  and  places  where  dis- 
tinguished strangers  have  tarried  only  for  a  time  make  a  boast 
of  this  distinction.  The  only  public  memento  of  this  kind  in 
Dublin  is  that  which  marks  the  birthplace  of  Thomas  Moore  in 
Aungier-street.  Why  not  distinguish  the  home  of  Thomas  Davis, 
61  Baggot-street ;  or  the  house  in  Dawson-street  where  Mrs. 
Hemans  died  ?  Besides  his  beautiful  Summerfield,  at  Dalkey, 
the  poet  Denis  Florence  MacCarthy  at  one  time  lived  at  a  house 
which  has  since  changed  its  number,  in  Upper  Gardiner-street, 
where  Upper  Sherrard-street  now  meets  it,  nearest  to  St.  Francis 
Xavier's. 

A  similar  interest  clings  to  Heathfield,  in  Upper  Leeson-street, 
for  there  John  Mitchel  lived.  He  refers  to  it  in  one  of  his  auto- 
biographical papers  in  the  Irish  Citizen.  Writing  in  New  York, 
mark  how  he  gloats  over  the  names  of  the  very  streets  of  Dublin ! 
He  is  describing  his  first  acquaintance  with  T.  F.  Meagher,  whom  he 
first  met  at  the  '82  Club  : — "  Next  day  he  came  to  me  at  The 
Nation  office  in  D'Olier-street.  We  walked  out  together  towards 
my  house  in  Upper  Leeson-street ;  through  College-green,  Graf  ton- 
street,  Harcourt-street,  and  out  almost  into  the  country,  near 
Donnybrook.  What  talk !  what  eloquence  of  talk  was  his  !  how 
fresh  and  clear  and  strong !  What  wealth  of  imagination  and 
princely  generosity  of  feeling !  To  me  it  was  the  revelation  of  a 
new  and  great  nature,  and  I  revelled  in  it,  plunged  into  it,  as  into 
a  crystal  lake." 

It  was  in  this  modest  and  happy  home  that  John  Mitchel  was 
fond  of  gathering  a  few  intimate  friends  around  him.  In  our 
account  *  of  his  daughter  Henrietta  we  gave  a  sample  of  one  of 

*  Our  account  falls  into  a  few  mistakes.  Henrietta's  biographer  was  Mademoiselle 
Bratnet.  Isabella  was  not  present  at  his  deathbed.  She  had  accompanied  him  to 
Ireland  the  year  before ;  but  the  last  time  he  had  been  accompanied  by  hi*  son  James 
who  returned  to  New  York  before  his  last  brief  sickness  declared  itself. 


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A  Curious  Little  Relic  of  '48.  221 

the  ingenious  little  games  which  in  that  day  served  to  amuse  people 
of  simple  and  intellectual  tastes.  Father  Kenyon  and  the  others 
who  were  present  the  same  evening,  little  imagined  there  was  "a 
chiel  amang  them  takin*  notes/'  and  the  chiel  herself  had  still 
less  notion  that  her  notes  would  creep  into  print.  A  clever  girl 
in  the  company  seems  to  have  pounced  on  the  scraps  of  paper  on 
which  the  gentlemen  scribbled  their  contributions  to  the  pastime. 
Of  the  ladies'  achievements  no  record  has  reached  us.  The  friend 
whose  memory  furnished  us  with  Mitchel's  rhymes,  in  the  paper 
referred  to,  has  completely  forgotten  his  own  share  of  the  entertain- 
ment ;  but  the  note-taking  child  aforesaid  has  kindly  supplied 
this  omission.  Our  readers  may  remember  that  each  person  taking 
part  in  the  game  had  to  introduce  a  certain  given  noun  into  his 
rhymed  answer  to  a  certain  given  question,  and,  of  course,  the 
nouns  were  very  often  words  difficult  to  weave  into  any  answer 
to  any  question.  For  instance,  the  clever  youth  whom  we  may 
call  Morus,  and  who  will  be  greatly  astonished  at  seeing  his 
" unconsidered  trifles  "  snapped  up  in  this  fashion,  was  required  to 
introduce  the  word  culmination  into  his  answer  to  the  question : 
What  are  you  to  do  with  your  raw  material  in  exchange  for  your  drain 
of  gold?  His  muse,  not  plying  her  trade  in  a  poetic  solitude 
beside  a  purling  stream,  but  in  the  midst  of  a  noisy  roomful  of 
young  men  and  maidens,  produced  the  following : 

When  Mars  in  conjunction  is  nigh  culmination, 
Then  take  on  the  top  of  Slieve  Donard  your  station, 
And  watch  the  aspect  of  that  bright  constellation, 
And  thus  he'll  reply  to  your  interrogation  : 
"  Gather  up  all  the  cattle  and  corn  in  the  nation, 
Then  summon  a  meeting  of  monster  starvation 
And  bid  every  man  take  an  adequate  ration." 

These  rhymes  may  have  had  more  meaning  in  those  days 
when  "  monster  meetings "  had  a  familiar  sound.  So,  too,  the 
Sikhs  were  frequently  spoken  of,  and  Father  Kenyon  seems  to 
have  pronounced  the  name  like  six  instead  of  rhyming  it  with 
strikes.  He  had  to  bring  elixir  into  his  answer  to  the  question — 
"  Why  don't  the  Irish  encourage  their  own  manufactures  P"  He 
achieved  a  very  moderate  success : — 

Why  is  the  sun  not  dark  ?    Why  do  pansies  grow  ? 

Why  are  questions  asked  ?    No  answer  !     Even  so 

The  Irish  act  like  all,  savages,  sages,  Sikhs  or 

Many  another  race.    What  next?    "  You're  out !  "    Elixir. 

The  P.P.  of  Templederry  answers  somewhat  better  the  ques- 

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222  A  Curious  Little  Belie  of  '48. 

tion :   Where  is  woman's  bright  story  told  ?    But  the  notin  tea  is  too 
easy  for  such  a  feminine  context. 

Where  woman  is  to  tell  it — there 

'Tie  told,  and  worth  the  hearing.     Where 

Is  woman  then  to  tell  it?    See 

The  board  when  stored  with  creamy  tea, 

And  you've  her  whereabouts  to  a  T. 

For  some  of  our  readers  the  name  "  Father  Kenyon  "  has  no 
associations  either  of  sympathy  or  antipathy ;  and  such  will  see 
nothing  but  folly  in  this  fooling.  But  surely  his  youthful  lay  com- 
petitor, whose  honoured  name  we  disguise  under  that  of  Morns, 
deserves  credit  for  introducing  the  noun  Eukeirogeneion,  while 
answering  the  query  :   Who  is  the  man  in  the  moon  ? 

«  Who  is  he  ?    Ah,  who  is  he, 

That  mystic  being  wild  and  strange 
That  glideth  o'er  the  pearly  floor 

With  ever  shifting  chance  and  change — 
The  Lord  of  lovers'  lofty  lays, 
Of  lunatics  and  lilting  lyres, 
Who  sheds  Diana's  purest  rays 
And  kindles  cold  and  caustic  fires  ? 
That  amiable  gent  I  have  never  set  eye  on, 
But  he  uses,  I  hear,  Thwaites'  Eukeirogeneion." 

I  have  looked  in  vain  for  this  last  learned  word  in  a  dictionary, 
and  I  have  not  time  to  pursue  its  component  parts  through 
a  Greek  lexicon.*  When,  in  his  turn,  colure  was  proposed  to 
Mitchel,  as  the  catchword  or  stumhling-hlock  of  his  muse,  was  he 
able  off-hand  to  recall  that  the  colures  are  the  two  great  circles 
which  pass  through  the  equinoctial  and  solstitial  points  of  the 
ecliptic  P — information,  for  which  the  present  writer  is  indebted 
to  the  late  Mr.  Stormonth.  But  in  those  days  even  young  ladies 
were  supposed,  at  least  in  school  prospectuses,  to  learn  the  Use  of 
the  Globes;  and  Mitchel  himself  in  that  delicious  rhapsody 
which  we  quoted  last  month,  talks  glibly  about  "the  gibbous 
shoulder  of  this  oblate  spheroid" — a  phrase  which  would  occur  to 
few  other  political  firebrands  as  a  pleasantly  pedantic  name  for 
our  mother  Earth.  How  proud  his  little  sister — who  was  busily 
picking  up  the  crumbs  that  fell  from  the  master's  table,  to  serve 
them  up  for  our  readers  after  many  years — how  proud  she  must 
have  been  when  this  formidable  astronomical  term  was  safely 
imbedded  in  the  neat  verses  which  answered   the  question — 

*  See  the  last  of  our  Pigeonhole  Paragraphs  at  page  228  on  this  point  and  on  the 
pronunciation  of  "Sikhs." 


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A  Curious  Little  Relic  of  '48.  223 

"  Why  was  not  Father  Kenyon  at  the  meeting  to-day  ?"  They 
may  be  given  again,  as  six  lines  of  bourgeois  will  not  occupy 
much  of  our  valuable  space,  and  as  they  are  the  only  extant 
specimen  of  John  Mitchel's  verse-making,  though  our  chronicler 
mentions  that  he  and  his  mother  often  took  part  in  this  and 
similar  games : 

"  The  motions  of  this  Tory  reverend  priest 
Defy  the  skill  of  human  calculator ; 
From  north  to  south  he  shoots,  from  west  to  east,  ( 
From  pole  to  pole,  from  colure  to  equator ; 
And,  when  you  deem  you  firmly  have  your  eyes  on 
This  slippery  priest,  he's  off  beyond  the  horizon. ' 

This  is  the  best  of  the  whole  set  of  nugae,  better  even  than  any 
by  the  prolific  Morns  who  was  commanded  to  mention  a  boa 
constrictor  while  replying  to  the  question — Are  you  an  Irish 
Confederate  ?  I  alluded  lately,  in  conversation,  to  the  Irish 
Confederation,  and  a  man  of  mature  years  imagined  I  was  going 
back  to  the  Confederation  of  Kilkenny.  He  had  quite  forgotten 
this  as  the  chosen  name  of  the  Seceders  of  forty  years  ago.  Still 
less  does  the  really  young  Ireland  of  these  days  know  or  think 
about  the  men  and  things  of  those  days. 

*«  Yes,  on  my  word  I  am  a  confederate — 
Our  cause  will  continue  to  grow  at  a  steady  rate 
Till  it  whips  all  our  foes,  like  an  old  Roman  lictor, 
Or  swallows  them  up  like  a  boa  constrictor." 

Only  one  more  trial  of  skill  is  recorded.  The  same  Morus 
was  summoned  to  bring  honest  Tom  Steele  into  his  answer  to  the 
query — "  Why  was  not  I  born  a  poetess  F 

"  Why  was  I  not  gifted  (how  deeply  I  feel 
The  depth  of  my  loss) — with  thy  genius,  Tom  Steele  ? 
1  would  sing  of  volcanic,  sublime  conflagration 
And  balmiest  ethical  regeneration !  " 

The  young  poet  copies  the  oratorical  style  of  the  Head  Paci- 
ficator ;  but  he  slurs  over  the  difficult  point  of  gender,  poetess,  not 
poet — which  might  lead  us  to  suppose  that  this  last  question  was 
in  reality  the  despairing  exclamation  of  one  of  the  young  ladies 
who  had  failed  to  execute  her  allotted  task — perhaps  that  little 
maiden  herself,  whose  notes  of  the  proceedings  of  that  evening, 
so  long  gone  by,  have  survived  many  years  and  many  wander- 
ings, to  furnish  at  last  to  our  readers  this  curious  little  relic  of 
*48. 


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PIGEONHOLE  PARAGRAPHS. 

Do  you  know  what  a  boomerang  is  P  A  curved,  wooden  war-club 
thrown  by  the  natives  of  Australia  with  wonderful  precision,  so 
as,  after  hitting  its  aim,  to  come  back  to  the  person  who  throws  it, 
ready  for  use  once  more.  Now  it  strikes  me  (ominous  phrase  !) 
that  exhortations,  counsels,  and  spiritual  admonitions  are  very 
often  like  boomerangs  which  make  a  slight  mistake  on  the  return 
journey,  and  which,  instead  of  bounding  back  ready  to  the  hand 

of  the  thrower,  aim  just  a  little  higher  and  hit  him  on  the  nose. 

#  *  * 

Father  Alexander  de  Gabriac,  S.J.,  the  biographer  of  Father 
de  Ponlevoy,  evidently  knew  nothing  about  John  Mitchel  and  the 
vicissitudes  of  his  career.  The  story  of  John  Mitchel's  Daughter 
told  in  our  last  Number  is  condensed  by  the  French  Jesuit  into 
these  lines.  "  En  1861  le  Pere  de  Ponlevoy  re9ut  Tabjuration 
d'une  jeune  Irlandaise  protestante,  type  charmant  de  la  terre  des 
Saints,  kme  g^nereuse  et  virile  autant  que  delicate  et  po6tique» 
Elle  entra  alors  au  pensionnat  et  continua  &  se  faire  diriger  par 
celui  qui  lui  avait  ouvert  les  portes  de  TEglise  Catholique.  '  Oh ! 
mon  pSre,'  lui  ecrivit-il  un  jour,  *  il  me  faut  £tre  une  sainte,  faites 
de  moi  une  sainte,  le  voulez  vous  P '  Le  Pere  de  Ponlevoy  n'eut 
pas  de  peine  &  le  vouloir ;  il  coop^ra  &  la  perfection  d'une  &me  que 
Dieu  pressait  de  se  sanctifier  pour  la  couronner  plus  tot.  Elle 
mourut  &  dix-huit  ans,  et  son  directeur  put  dire  d'elle  apres  sa 

mort :  *  Henriette  6tait  vraiment  une  heroine  Chrttienne." 

*  *  * 

Some  of  our  contributors  are  suffering  from  a  too  strict  applica- 
tion of  the  saying,  noscitur  a  sociis.  They  are  put  down  as  belong- 
ing to  the  country  and  to  the  Church  which  this  modest  periodical 
is  ambitious  to  serve.  For  instance,  an  American  magazine  spoke 
of  "  The  Poet  in  May "  as  the  work  of  "  a  new  Catholic 
poet."  But  Miss  Evelyn  Pyne  is  not  a  Catholic,  neither  is 
the  sonneteer  who  in  another  page  of  this  Number  addresses 
the  great  Oratorian  Cardinal  so  reverently.  Miss  Pyne  is 
charged  moreover  with  being  an  Irishwoman.  This  alas!  is 
another  calumny,  of  which  a  writer  in  the  Dublin  University  Review  ' 
for  March  is  unwittingly  guilty  in  the  opening  sentence  of  his 
review  of  Miss  Mulholland's  "  Vagrant  Verses."  "  Miss  Katha- 
rine Tynan,  Miss  Evelyn  Pyne,  and  Miss  Rosa  Mulholland,  from 


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Pigeonhole  Paragraphs.  225 

what  may  be  called  the  Rossettian  School  of  Anglo-Irish  Poetry ; 
though,  indeed,  in  Miss  Mulholland's  case  the  kinship  to  Rossetti, 
real  as  it  is,  is  but  a  distant  one." 

*  *  * 

The  criticism  just  referred  to  is  a  very  able  one,  though  written 
from  a  slightly  Olympian  standpoint.  The  qualification  appended 
to  the  above  charge  of  belonging  to  the  Rossetti  School  makes  it 
mean  nothing  worse  than  that  the  author  of  "  Vagrant  Verses  "  is 
so  far  modern,  so  far  under  the  influence  of  the  contemporary 
spirit,  as  to  be  attentive  to  the  subtlest  purity  and  refinement  of 
poetic  diction,  while  shunning  all  artificial  mannerisms  and  all  that 
is  unwholesome  in  thought,  feeling,  and  suggestion.  And  indeed 
this  Dublin  University  Reviewer  himself  adds  that  "there  is 
absolutely  none  of  the  insincere  catching  at  effect,  the  pseudo- 
poetic  vulgarity,  to  which  verse- writers  whose  true  sphere  is  not 
poetry  are  commonly  so  prone."  He  also  expresses  admiration  for 
the  "powerful  and  various  intellect  revealed  in  those  poems"  and 
for  "  the  calm  and  sober  strength  with  which  the  English  language 
is  used  in  such  poems  as  Failure,  The  Builders,  After  the  War,  or 
A  Stolen  Visit " — which  last  piece  he  describes  as  "  a  poem  which 
will  delight  all  who  can  find  pleasure  in  pure  English  and  flawless 

workmanship." 

*  *  * 

The  rest  of  the  March  Number  of  the  Dublin  University  Review 
is  ardently  political,  except  a  very  elaborate  lecture  on  Albert 
Durer,  and  a  serial  story  which  is  evidently  well  translated  but  is 
still  very  Russian.  Mr.  Yeats  himself  calls  his  "  Two  Titans  "  (of 
which  I  do  not  understand  a  syllable)  "  a  political  poem ;  "  and 
even  the  paper  signed  "  Sophie  Bryant "  is  sternly  logical  and 
political.     A  frivolous  reader  might  be  tempted  to  remark  that 

Mrs.  Bryant's  reasoning  is  somewhat  Sophie-istical. 

*  *  * 

An  English  Jesuit  visited  Iceland  last  summer,  sailing  from 
Edinburgh  on  a  certain  Saturday  and  reaching  Reykjavik,  the 
capital  of  Iceland,  on  the  Thursday  following — which  shows  that 
Iceland  and  Ireland  are  pretty  far  apart.  The  name  of  our  own 
dear  little  island  is  not  brought  in  here  simply  because  out  of  the 
fulness  of  the  heart  the  mouth  speaketh,  but  because  it  is  on 
account  of  an  allusion  to  Ireland  that  I  venture  to  allude  to  an 
unpublished  letter  of  Father  Cyprian  Splaine,  S.J.  "  Here  we  have 
(he  writes)  near  home  a  civilized  people,  and  a  mission  founded  and 
permanently  endowed,  recently  neglected,  though  there  is  reason 

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226  Pigeonhole  Paragraphs. 

to  believe  that  Catholic  missioners  would  now  be  welcomed  there, 
even  by  non-Catholics.  A  raissioner,  stationed  at  Reykjavik, 
would  be  able  to  look  up,  from  time  to  time,  some  five  hundred 
poor  people  who  live,  utterly  destitute  of  religious  aid  of  any  sort, 
on  one  of  the  "Westmann  Isles.  These  Vestmenn  are  Irishmen 
or  of  Irish  blood  originally,  and  one  at  least  of  a  few  that  boarded 
our  vessel  when  we  touched  at  the  islands  was  of  a  decidedly  Irish 
type  of  countenance.     The  language  spoken  by  them  is  a  kind  of 

vulgar  Icelandic." 

*  *  * 

Some  puzzling  questions  are  suggested  by  this  passage.  One 
is  a  small  point — how  the  inhabitants  of  a  Westmann  Isle  came  to 
be  called  Vestmenn.  This  ourious  plural  may  be  a  blunder  of 
writer  or  printer.  But  the  serious  question  is  when  and  how  this 
Irish  settlement  took  place.  Do  they  speak  nothing  but  Icelandic  ? 
What  traditions  live  amongst  them  connected  with  Faith  and 
Fatherland  P  Can  nothing  be  done  for  this  offshoot  of  the  Irish 
race  P  I  have  known  an  Irish  priest  make  his  way  to  Algiers 
during  the  summer  vacation.  Perhaps  some  one  might  turn  for  his 
holidays  in  the  opposite  direction  and  look  up  these  "five 
hundred  poor  people  of  Irish  blood  who  are  utterly  destitute  of 

religious  aid  of  any  sort." 

*  •  * 

It  is  extraordinary  (yet  is  it  extraordinary  P)  how  Irishmen 
turn  up  everywhere  where  there  is  question  of  Catholicity.  Father 
Splaine  says  that,  when  he  celebrated  Mass  in  the  deserted  chapel 
at  Reykjavik,  it  was  filled,  though  there  were  only  three  Catholics 
present — Mr.  and  Mrs.  Tierney  and  their  little  son  whom  he  had 
on  the  previous  evening  taught  how  to  serve  Mass.  Mr.  Tierney 
keeps  a  store  in  the  town.  How  long  is  it  since  he  left  the  old 
land  P    May  he  prosper,  and  may  God  save  Ireland  and  all  the 

scattered  race  of  the  sea-divided  Gael  I 

*  ♦  * 

The  following  lines,  composed  by  Father  Joseph  Shea,  S.J., 
were  found  on  his  desk  when  he  died  in  New  York,  in  December, 
1881  :— 

When  I  am  dying,  how  glad  I  shall  be 

That  the  lamp  of  my  life  has  been  burnt  out  for  Thee ! 

That  sorrow  has  darkened  the  path  that  1  trod ; 

That  thorns,  and  no  roses,  were  strewn  o'er  the  sod ; 

That  anguish  of  spirit  full  often  was  mine, 

Since  anguish  of  spirit  full  often  was  thine. 

My  cherished  Rabboni,  how  glad  1  shall  be, 

To  die  with  the  hope  of  a  welcome  from  Thee! 

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Pigeonhole  Paragraphs.  227 

•  *  * 

I  will  punish  both  parties  by  gibbeting  them  in  a  Pigeonhole 
Paragraph.  The  two  "  parties  "  are  the  Mother  Superior  of  a 
French  conyent,  and  one  of  her  nuns  who  is  an  "  exile  of  Erin." 
Writing  to  a  friend  at  home  in  the  Green  Isle,  she  says :  "  I  heard 
of  you  lately  quite  unexpectedly  through  the  Irish  Monthly,  as 
one  of  the  songstresses  whose  silence  was  a  cause  of  regret  to  the 
readers  of  the  Magazine.     Are  you  not  going  to  write  any  more, 

dear P    It  would  be  a  pity  not  to  have  your  share  in  the  good 

work  done  by  that  excellent  little  periodical  ["  Excellent "  added 
over  the  line  by  a  polite  after-thought].  We  get  it  through  a 
friend,  and  it  is  the  only  English  journal  that  I  can  see.  Imagine 
my  horror  the  other  day  to  hear  Reverend  Mother  say,  when  hand-  - 
ing  me  the  number  for  February :  '  There !  I  see  an  incorrection 
[sic]  in  your  magazine.  Who  knows  how  many  more  I  should 
find  if  I  knew  English  P '  It  was  a  quotation  from  Racine  that 
was  attributed  to  Louis  Veuillot.  If  you  are  in  correspondence 
with  Father  So-and-so,  it  would  be  a  charity  to  make  him  see  the 
mistake.     What  should  I  do,  were  my  only  English  reading  to  be 


Whereunto  the  said  Father  So-and-so  maketh  answer  and 
saith,  that  there  is  no  mistake  at  all  in  the  passage,  and  that 
the  only  u  incorrection "  is  the  correction  suggested  by  Madame 
la  Sup£rieure.  It  is  all  about  a  "  winged  word  "  in  our  February 
number,  in  the  middle  of  page  112  of  the  present  volume  : — "Man 
is  a  being  placed  between  two  moments  of  time,  one  of  which  no 
longer  is,  and  the  other  is  not  yet."  This  saying  is  quite  correctly 
assigned  to  Louis  Veuillot.  But  a  parallel  passage  is  slipped  in 
between  square  brackets : — "  Le  moment  oil  je  parle  est  d£j&  loin 
de  moi." 

Why  did  not  our  constant  reader  explain  to  her  French 
Superior  that  this  would  be  translated  quite  differently  P  "  The 
moment  in  which  I  am  speaking  is  already  far  away  from  me." 
And  again  this  is  not  from  Racine,  but  from  Boileau's  third 
epistle : — 

Hd  tons-nous  :  le  temps  f  uit  et  nous  truine  apres  soi : 
Le  moment  ou  je  parle  est  deja,  loin  de  moi. 

The  French  poet  keeps  very  close  to  the  last  line  of  the  follow- 
ing passage  from  Persius,  part  of  which  would  remind  one  of  the 
old  conundrum  about  "  To-day :"  "  What  was  To-morrow  will  be 
Yesterday." 

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228  Pigeonhole  Paragraphs. 

Oras  hoc  fiet    Idem  eras  fiet    Quid  P  quasi  magnum 

Nempe  diem  donas  ?    Sed  cum  lux  altera  venit, 

Jam  eras  hesternum  consumpsimus.    Ecce  aliud  eras 

Egerit  hos  annos,  et  semper  paullum  erit  ultra. 

Vive  memor  leti ;  fugit  hora;  hoc  quod  loquor  inde  est. 

To  the  same  effect  is  Martial's  fine  epigram  Ad  Posthumum  ; 
but  we  have  emptied  out  enough   of  our  pigeon-holes  for  the 

present. 

*  *  » 

Yet  we  must  add  another  paragraph,  promised  in  the  footnote 
of  page  222.  One  of  the  most  marvellous  memories  we  have  ever 
heard  of  was  able  offhand  to  illustrate  the  pronunciation  of 
"  Sikhs  "  by  quoting  Clarence  Mangan's  "  Song  of  Sixpence': " — 

"  Pens  of  all  The  Nation's  bards, 

Up  and  do  your  duty ! 
Sing,  not  Valour's  meet  rewards 

In  the  smiles  of  beauty : 
Sing,  not  landlordism  laid  low 

'Mid  its  burning  ricks,  pens ! 
Sing  of  Britain's  overthrow — 

Sing  a  song  of  Sikhs,  pens  ! " 

But  few  of  our  readers  are  old  enough  to  remember  that  Indian 

warfare. 

*  «  * 

The  same  marvellous  memory  was  able,  without  a  moment's 
warning,  to  explain  that  the  eukeirogeneion  celebrated  in  one  of 
the  nonsense- verses  a  few  pages  back  was  a  shaving  paste  invented 
by  a  Cork  man  and  sung  by  Father  Frank  Mahony : — 

"Eukeirogeneion 
Whoever  sets  eye  on 
May  firmly  rely  on 

A  capital  shave ; 
And  as  for  the  water, 
It  maketh  no  matter 
From  whence  derivator — 

The  well  or  the  wave." 

But  here  another  difficulty  arises.  At  page  90  of  Bohn's  edition 
of  "  Father  Prout's  Keliques,"  I  find  half  of  this  quotation  but 
not  the  other  half.  At  page  77  Bob  Olden  (not  Thwaites)  is  said 
to  be  the  inventor  of  this  incomparable  lather,  whose  praise  he 
sings  in  the  Watergrasshill  carousal.  The  form  in  which  we  have 
quoted  it  is  an  improvement  on  the  authorised  version.  Und* 
derivator  ? 


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THE  O'CONNELL  PAPERS. 

PART  XXIII. 

Unpublished  Letters  op  Henry  Gbattan. 

The  following  note  appears  in  Notes  and  Queries  of  February  20th, 
1886:— 

W.  T.  asks  whether  any  letters  of  Daniel  O'Connell  are  in  existence.  The 
Liberator's  second  son,  Morgan  O'Connell,  who  died  just  a  year  ago  in  Dublin,, 
gave  a  large  quantity  of  his  father's  papers  to  the  editor  of  a  sixpenny  magazine, 
published  in  Dublin  by  M.  H.  Gill  &  Son — the  Ibish  Monthly— of  which  I 
send  you  the  current  number,  containing  the  twenty-first  instalment  of  "  The 
O'Connell  Papers,"  in  the  shape  of  unpublished  letters,  by  Spring  Rice  (the  first 
Lord  Monteagle),  Smith  O'Brien,  and  Thomas  Davis.  The  publication  of  these 
*'  O'Connell  Papers"  began  in  the  Ibish  Monthly  for  May,  1882,  with  a  diary 
kept  by  O'Connell,  from  1798  to  1802,  and  giving  some  of  his  earliest  letters. 
As  O'Connell  long  survived  his  wife,  he  probably  destroyed  the  letters  which 
she  had  treasured  up,  whereas  there  are  piles  of  Mrs.  COonnell's  letters  care- 
fully preserved.  Naturally,  also,  this  collection  chiefly  consists  of  the  letters 
addressed  to  O'Connell.  Among  those  published  in  the  volumes  of  the  Magazine 
for  1882, 1883,  and  1884  (there  are  none  in  that  for  1885),  the  most  noticeable 
are  several  letters  from  Jeremy  Bentham,  William  Cobbett,  and  Henry  Brougham. 
The  series  will  be  continued  henceforth  without  interruption. 

Not  to  break  this  engagement  just  after  making  it,  we  continue 
our  selection  from  our  archives,  though  the  remaining  space  is  very 
scanty. 

There  may  be  a  few  (will  there  be  even  a  few  ?)  of  our  readera 
who  will  remember  having  at  least  heard  of  John  Morgan,  Editor  of 
the  Newry  Examiner,  fifty  years  ago.  He  was  a  man  of  great  ability, 
who,  in  better  times  and  in  a  wider  sphere,  might  have  attained  dis- 
tinction. I  wish  there  was  a  museum  containing  perfect  sets  of  all 
provincial  newspapers,  dead  and  living.  Many  a  curious  and  many  a 
clever  thing  could  be  dug  out  of  such  a  mine.  How  invaluable  would 
a  museum  of  this  sort  be  to  historians  and  to  the  literary  workers  in 
the  future !  But  even  living  journals  hardly  keep  up  unbroken  the 
tradition  and  the  records  of  their  bygone  years— and  then  journals 
die — and  who  cares  to  preserve  their  huge  dusty  folios  ?  The  tra- 
dition that  has  reached  me  of  the  cleverness  of  the  Newry  Examiner, 
in  its  early  days,  made  me  read  the  following,  which  O'Connell  pre- 
served, or  at  least  did  not  destroy : — 

Netory  Examiner  Office, 

23rtf  November,  1834. 
Deab  Sir, 

A  Mr. ,  an  attorney,  who  lives  at  Tanderagee,  has  obtained  a  con^ 

ditional  order  for  a  criminal  information  against  the  proprietors  of  the  Newry 

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230  The  O'Connell  Papers. 

Examiner,  in  consequence  of  our  having  copied  from  the  Dublin  Evening  Fott  a 
report  of  the  Orange  Meeting  in  Dublin,  in  August  last  wherein  Colonel  Verner  is 
made  to  say,  that  the  late  Government  had  dismissed  from  the  Commission  of  the 
Peace  a  gentleman  of  the  first  respectability,  on  "the  perjured  evidence  of  a  hedge* 

schoolmaster  and  his  son. "    I  am  perfectly  convinced  that  Mr. is  actuated 

by  vindictive  motives,  in  selecting  the  Newry  Examiner  for  prosecution.  The 
reasons  for  my  belief  in  this  being  true,  are  embodied  in  the  accompanying 
pages,  which  I  scrawled  out,  in  order  to  embody  them  in  the  affidavit,  but  which, 
by  the  advice  of  Mr.  John  Henry  Quin,  Attorney,  who  takes  a  friendly  interest 
in  the  welfare  of  the  establishment,  we  have  altogether  omitted  in  the  affidavit 
we  have  sworn.  It  is  confined  to  the  actual  fact,  that  neither  I  nor  Mr.  Stevenson 
read  the  three  or  four  lines  attributed  to  Colonel  Verner  until  we  got  notice  of 
the  conditional  order  being  obtained,  nor  would  we,  had  we  read  them,  have 
known  to  whom  they  were  applicable.     Although  I  have  no  respect  for  this 

Mr. ,  from  the  little  I  know  of  him,  I  would  be  sorry  to  do  him  injustice 

to  gratify  the  rascally  faction  of  which  Colonel  Verner  is  a  sample.  The  man, 
I  think,  has  no  principle  only  what  pique  gives  him.  He  was  originally  a 
Catholic ;  he  quarrelled  with  his  parish  priest  about  a  seat  in  the  chapel — he 
broke  into  the  chapel,  wrecked  seats,  altar,  and  all ;  and,  having  thus  qualified 
himself  for  becoming  a  Protestant,  he  was  adopted  as  the  protege*  of  Dean 
Carter.  The  "  New  Reformationists  n  thought  they  had  got  a  great  prize ;  but 
he  has  been  a  thorn  in  the  side  of  Tanderagee  Orangeism  and  Conservatism  ever 
since;  and,  to  give  the  fellow  his  due,  he  has  "  done  the  State  some  service " — 
the  dismissal  of  Colonel  Blacker  and  Dean  Carter  to  wit,  which  was  effected 
chiefly  through  his  agency.  But  he  is,  in  other  respects,  no  better  than  a 
common  Barrator  ;  and  I  am  convinced,  as  I  am  writing  this,  that  the  cause  of 
his  enmity  is  the  non-publication  of  letters,  which  would  have  furnished  grounds 
for  libel  prosecutions  that  would  have  kept  us  in  gaol  for  the  rest  of  our  natural 
lives. 

May  I  request  that  you  will  plead  for  us,  and  get  the  conditional  order  set 
aside  P  I  know  the  multitudinous  business  you  have  on  hands  at  present ;  but 
your  moving  in  the  affair  would,  I  am  sure,  quash  the  proceedings ;  and,  though 
I  have  no  fear  as  to  the  result,  I  dread  the  annoyance  and  the  costs  of  the  Four 
Courts. 

Mr.  Charles  Cavanagh  will  call  upon  you  to-morrow  with  the  affidavit. 

I  have  just  finished  reading  with  delight  the  proceedings  at  the  great 
Dublin  Meeting.  I  was  at  Dundalk  on  Wednesday.  All  at  sea,  in  storm  and 
confusion.  Sharman  Crawford  has  been  written  to.  I  know  hell  refuse: 
unless  Sir  Patrick  Bellew  can  be  driven  to  the  hustings— and  it  will  require 
driving — the  Orange  party  will  have  an  easy  victory.  I  wish  you  had  time  to 
give  some  advice  to  the  Louthians.  'Twill  be  the  first  battle,  and  it  will  be 
bad  if  it  be  lost.  I  have  no  room  for  what  would  not  be  words  of  course  in 
expressing  my  respect;  but  I  feel  honour  in  subscribing  myself  of  Ireland's 
Friend 

The  faithful  servant, 

John  Morgan. 

Daniel  O'Connell,  Esq.,  M.P. 

The  Colonel  Verner  referred  to  here  in  uncomplimentary  terms  was 
Sir  William  Verner  of  Armagh,  the  typical  Orangeman  of  the  period. 


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The  (y  Cornell  Papers.  231 

Yet  we  saw  last  month  how  closely  oonneoted  he  was  with  John 
Mitohel  who  was  by  no  means  an  Orangeman,  but  who  went  perhaps 
a  little  too  far  into  the  opposite  extreme. 

Among  these  letters  preserved  by  O'Connell  are  several  of  Sir 
Jonah  Barrington's,  very  illegible  and  seemingly  not  very  interesting ; 
and  many  by  Mr.  James  Birch,  Lord  Clarendon's  friend,  legible 
enough  and  perhaps  too  interesting,  but  not  to  be  published  without 
more  careful  examination  than  can  now  be  given.  But  anything  by 
Henry  Orattan — the  great  Henry  Grattan — is  worth  publishing  for  his 
very  name's  sake. 

Stephen's  Green, 

3rd  January,  1819. 
My  dear  Sib, 

I  thank  you  for  your  kind  communication,  and  am  happy  that  the  speech 
hat  giren  satisfaction.    I  hope  it  will  produce  good  and  reconcile  all  parties. 

I  enter  into  your  sentiments  on  the  state  of  this  country.  Ireland  has  ceased  to 
exist  as  a  nation,  and  I  fear  it  is  more  likely  that  other  nations  will  fall  than  that 
Ireland  will  rise.  But  of  this  I  am  certain  that  nothing  national  or  useful  can  ever  be 
effected  without  a  cordial  union  of  both  classes  in  this  country.  Therefore  it  is  that 
the  speech  seeks  to  unite  us.  The  principle  of  our  question  being  carried,  such  a 
useful  discourse  will  tend  to  effectuate  its  final  accomplishment. 

As  to  the  Society  that  you  allude  to— I  had  sucb  an  idea  in  my  mind  long  ago.  I 
attempted  to  lay  the  foundation  of  a  club  whose  objects  should  he  constitutional  and 
patriotic.  Many  of  my  friends  know  the  efforts  I  made.  I  regret  that  they  proved 
unsuccessful,  and  that  the  difficulties  that  were  started  caused  its  abandonment. 

As  to  the  one  in  question,  perhaps  during  the  lifetime  of  the  individual  it  would 
be  premature.  That  it  should  be  connected  with  the  period  of  '82  (the  only  period  of 
Irish  History)  I  am  decidedly  of  opinion.  From  peculiar  circumstances  it  would  not 
be  proper  that  I  should  be  the  mover  of  such  a  project ;  but  whenever  it. should  be 
effected,  whether  during  the  lifetime  of  the  individual  or  after  his  termination,  I 
trust  I  shall  not  hang  back  when  the  opportunity  presents  itself  of  upholding  principles 
which  I  shall  ever  hold  dear  and  which  I  conceive  breathe  attachment  to  the  country 
and  the  constitution. 

As  to  what  you  mention  of  poor  Curran,  I  quite  coincide.  Every  honour  should 
be  paid  to  him.  He  loved  liberty ;  he  upheld  it  in  the  times  of  danger,  and  stood  by 
his  country  when  others  sold  her. 

I  remain,  dear  sir, 

Very  truly  your  obedient  servant, 

Hekby  Gbatta*. 

Does  this  letter  refer  to  a  projected  Oharlemont  Club  ?  Nine  years 
later  Grattan  writes  again  to  O'Oonnell ;  and  this  is  the  only  other 
letter  we  van  at  present  discover  among  the  O'Connell  Papers  bearing 
this  illustrious  name : — 

22Centick  Snuotr. 
19th  Jan,  *28 
Drab  Sib, 

Tou  will  read  the  fate  and  failure  of  my  motion. 

I  tried  all  I  could,  but  in  vain.    Government  is  incorrigible.    Tlie  opinion  of  the- 


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232  To  Cardinal  Newman. 

Solicitor-General  was  thought  good  law  in  St.    Stephen's;    Qucert,  will  it  be  so 
thought  in  the  Orange  North  ?  _ 

I  hope  the  Catholics  will  nor  Jail  into  the  trap  of  Securities  and  Veto.    These 
,  words  should  be  banished  from  their  mouths. 

In  my  opinion  the  simultaneous  meetings  should  be  held,  but  in  a  more  solemn 
and  effectual  and  general  manner  than  the  last. 

The  Dissenters'  Dinner  yesterday  was  a  grand  triumph  for  us.  Nothing  could 
be  better.    Their  support  of  Emancipation  bordered  on  the  spirit  of  chivalry. 

Youre  yery  obedient, 

Henry  Grattan. 

Emancipation!  That  grand  word  which  Gurran  had  used  long 
before  so  grandly  in  the  famous  oratorical  burst  which  keeps  its 
fire  better  than  most  bursts  of  eloquence — "  redeemed,  regenerated 
and  disenthralled  by  the  irresistible  genius  of  universal  Emancipa- 
tion." The  associations  which  cling  to  the  word  lend  pathos  to  the 
anecdote  which  Father  Prout  tells  of  O'Connell's  deathbed  at 
Genoa.  Finding  he  could  raise  one  of  his  arms  again,  he  said 
feebly  to  the  physician  : — "  Doctor,  this  arm  is  emancipated." 


TO  CARDINAL  NEWMAN. 

"  T  EAD,  kindly  Light."    This  was  thy  prayer,  andlo  ! 

JJ    Through  devious  paths  thy  childlike  steps  were  guided. 

The  angels  smiled,  while  shallow  men  derided ; 
They  the  mysterious  leading  could  not  know. 
Men  marked  one  track ;  God  would  not  have  it  so; 

Their  way  was  not  the  way  He  had  provided, 

And  so  He  took  thy  genius  many-sided, 
And  planted  it  where  fitly  it  might  grow. 

That  Light  which  thou  didst  follow  shall  not  fail 

Till  in  the  shining  of  the  perfect  day 

Lost  in  full  splendour  sinks  the  single  ray. 
There  shall  be  no  more  night  within  the  veiL 

And  'mid  a  rapture  that  can  never  fail 

Thou  wilt  forget  the  sorrows  of  the  way. 

T.  H.  Wright. 


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(    233    ) 


MAUREEN   LACEY. 

BY   ROSA   MULHOLLAND, 

AUTHOE  OF  "  VAORAST  TBR.1ES,"  "  KILLKITT,"  "  HAKCILLA  GRACE,"  RC,  RTC. 

CHAPTER    I. 

IT  was  Hallow  Eve  in  the  island  of  Inisbofin,  off  the  coast  of 
Connemara,  seven  miles  out  in  the  Atlantic.  There  had  been 
a  ruddy  sunset,  and  the  sea  round  the  tall  grey  crags  was  still 
heaving  with  wonderful  colours.  The  blazing  crimson,  vivid  purple, 
and  tawny  gold,  that  had  burned  on  cloud,  hill,  and  wave,  were 
getting  toned  down  to  deeper,  staider  hues.  Maureen's  long  day'e 
work  in  the  open  air  was  almost  over,  and  she  stood  knee-deep  in 
the  heather,  binding  her  bundle  of  broom  with  a  rope  of  straw. 

Hound  and  round  about  her  swept  the  sad  barren  island, 
very  sad  and  very  barren  at  such  a  season,  and  such  an 
hour.  High,  bleak,  wandering  uplands,  deep  purple  hollows, 
long  brown  flats  of  treacherous  morass,  dark  melancholy  pools 
studded  with  clumps  of  lonesome  rushes  :  only  here  and  there  a 
soaring  crag  still  rosy.  Maureen  raised  her  head  and  looked  around, 
pausing  a  moment  before  swinging  her  fragrant  burden  on  her 
shoulders.  She  was  scarcely  musing  upon  the  beauty  of  the  scene  ; 
she  knew  nothing  about  the  artistic  splendour  of  its  desolation- 
More  likely  she  was  thinking  of  whether  the  frost  was  coming 
yet,  and  how  long  the  potatoes  would  last,  as  she  stood  there 
making  a  picture  herself  in  her  crimson  petticoat,  and  nappi- 
keen  of  chequered  blue,  knotted  under  her  chin.  She  rested, 
not  to  enjoy  anything,  but  to  draw  breath.  She  looked  like  a  girl 
who  had  worked  a  good  deal,  and  who  meant  to  work  more.  Her 
steady  mouth  in  its  silence  said  this  ;  so  did  her  quick  blue  eye ; 
.so  did  every  motion  of  her  lithe  active  figure.  Her  face  was  round 
and  comely,  and  there  was  beauty  in  the  wreath  of  rich  yellow 
hair  that  crowned  her  shapely  head.  A  few  years  more  of  such 
hardships  as  Maureen  had  endured  since  her  childhood,  would 
take  the  softness  from  her  cheeks  and  the  lustre  from  her  locks. 
Still,  rack  must  be  carried  from  rock  to  field,  potatoes  planted, 
turf  cut  and  stacked.  Bent  must  be  paid,  and  meal  bought  when 
Vol.  xiv.  No.  156.    May,  1886.  niLiti7  18 


234  Maureen  Lacey. 

the  potatoes  failed.  Maureen  would  have  little  time  to  think  of 
her  looks. 

Maureen  had  a  good  walk  before  her,  for  she  was  now  standing 
in  what  is  called  the  West  Quarter,  and  her  home  was  at  the  North 
Beach.  Swinging  her  burden  on  her  shoulders,  she  set  out  at  a 
brisk  pace.  There  was  not  a  sound  in  the  air  but  the  screaming 
of  some  seamews  round  a  pool,  or  now  and  then  a  whirring  noise 
of  wings,  as  a  sudden  flight  of  moor-fowl  rushed  past  overhead. 
Even  the  break  of  the  sea  on  the  shore  was  lost ,  except  for  that 
almost  imperceptible  sighing  which  is  perpetual  in  the  island  of 
Bofin.  Maureen  took  heed  of  nothing  as  she  hastened  on.  Her 
thoughts  were  full  of  the  potatoes. 

Presently  a  more  homely  sound  stole  over  the  air.  Some  one- 
was  whistling  on  tho  path  behind  Maureen.  Hearing  this,  she 
quickened  her  steps,  with  a  sudden  heat  in  her  face,  and  tightness 
of  breath.  But  the  following  foot  came  surely  on.  Its  pace  was 
swifter  than  hers. 

"  Save  ye,  Maureen  !  "  said  a  genial  voice  beside  her.  "  Give 
us  the  bun'le,     Yer  fair  broke  in  two  halves  with  the  weight  of  it." 

This  speaker  was  a  stalwart  young  fisherman,  with  as  much 
eagerness  in  his  bronzed  kindling  face  as  there  had  been  haste  in 
his  pursuing  step.  Maureen  stopped  short,  and  looked  at  him 
with  a  proud  troubled  directness  in  her  eyes. 

« What  for  should  I  give  you  my  bun'le,  Mike  Tiernay  ?  ** 
she  said,  sternly.  "You  just  carry  yer  own  bun'les,  and  I'll 
carry  mine.    That's  the  safest  that  I  can  see  betune  us  two." 

She  gave  her  burden  a  resolute  jerk,  and  began  plodding  on 
more  steadily  than  before.    But  Mike  kept  by  her  side. 

"It's  always  the  hard  word  with  you,  Maureen,"  he  said,, 
bitterly.  "  It's  often  a  throuble  to  me  wondherin'  if  I  was  to- 
work  for  a  hondhert  years  for  wan  smile,  would  you  give  me  that 
same  in  the  end  P  " 

"  Just  as  likely  not,"  said  Maureen,  shortly.  "  If  ye  have  so 
little  to  do  with  yer  time,  begin  and  work  for  girls  that  has  the 
world  light  on  their  shouldhers.  There's  plenty  in  Bofin  "11  give 
you  smiles  for  nothin'  without  waitin'  for  the  hondhert  years  to  be 
up.     Maureen  Lacey  hasn't  time  for  sich  foolery  !  " 

«  Whisht,  Maureen !  "  cried  Mike.  "You  know  well  that  I 
care  as  little  for  the  smile  that  isn't  on  your  face  as  the  hungry 
man  cares  for  the  stone  by  the  roadside.  Ye  know  that  the  sight 
o'  you's  mate  an'  dhrink  to  me  the  longest  day  that  iver  I  fasted, 
an'  the  smallest  word  you'd  spake  in  the  winther  is  sweeter  to  me 

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Maureen  Lacey.   •  235 

than  the  larks'  singin'  in  the  spring.  But  if  my  corpse  was  waked 
to-night  you'd  thramp  over  my  grave  to-mprrow,  an'  think  more 
o'  the  daisies  ye  hurt  with  yer  foot,  than  of  me  lyin'  below." 

"  Yer  not  dead,"  said  Maureen,  sullenly,  "  nor  dyin'  neither, 
nor  likely.  But  if  ye  were,  an'  yer  grave  lay  in  the  road  o'  my 
work,  I  suppose  I'd  thramp  over  it  all  as  wan  as  another.  An* 
as  for  smilin',  it's  little  good  smiles  'd  do  betune  you  an'  me.  They 
wouldn't  boil  the  pot  for  the  dawny  stepmother  an'  the  weeshie 
waneens  at  home.  I've  given  ye  this  answer  many's  the  time 
afore,  though  wanst  might  have  been  enough,  a  body  'd  think." 

"  Well,  Maureen,"  said  Mike,  drawing  himself  up,  "  I'm  not 
the  mane  wretch  to  keep  botherin'  a  girl  wanst  she  said  in  airnest, 
1  Mike,  I  don't  like  you,  there's  others  I  could  like  betther.'  But 
that's  what  you  niver  said  to  me  yet,  Maureen,  an'  in  spite  o'  yer 
hard  words  there's  a  glint  I've  seen  in  yer  eye,  ay,  faith,  a  weeshie 
glint,  that  keeps  me  warm  the  cru'lest  day  that  iver  I  put  in  on 
yon  waves.  There's  news  I  wanted  to  tell  ye  to-night,  an'  a  bit  of 
a  question  I  wanted  to  ax  ye.  But  when  ye  come  slap  on  me  with 
yer  crass  talk,  it  just  chokes  the  courage  down  my  throat." 

"I'm  glad  it  does,"  said  Maureen.  "I  neither  want  to  hear 
yer  news,  nor  to  answer  yer  questions.  An'  now  we're  comin'  to 
the  village.  Here's  my  path,  an'  there's  the  road  to  the  East  Ind. 
Ye'd  betther  let  me  go  home  my  lone." 

"  Go  your  lone,  then ! "  said  Mike,  fiercely,  "  an'  I'll  go  mine. 
I'll  be  betther  aff  than  you,  anyways,  that  hasn't  as  much  as  the 
sore  heart  for  company.  Sorra  bit,  but  such  a  thing  was  left  out 
clane  the  day  ye  were  made.  Maureen,"  he  added,  eagerly,  as  she 
turned  away,  his  angry  voice  falling  to  a  coaxing  whisper,  "there's 
to  be  a  Hallow's  Eve  dance  at  Biddy  Prendergast's  to-night. 
Hurry  the  childher  to  bed,  an'  give  yer  mother  her  beads  to  count 
at  the  fire,  an'  come.     Will  you  P  " 

Maureen  had  stopped  short.  "  No,  I  won't,"  she  said,  in  alow 
voice. 

"  Feth  ye  will  now,  avourneen  ! " 

"  Feth  I  won't ! "  persisted  the  girl,  doggedly,  with  her  eyes 
on  the  ground. 

"An'  ye  plase,  then,"  cried  Mike,  with  another  burst  of 
passion.  "There'll  be  plenty  of  likely  girls  at  Biddy's— Peggy 
Moran  for  wan,  the  best  dancer  in  the  island.  Bad  scran  to  the 
bit  af  my  ould  brogues  that  I  won't  dance  aff  my  feet  to  "  The 
Little  House  undher  the  Hill"  with  her.     No,  but  ye'll  come,  Mau- 


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236  Maureen  Lacey. 

reen.     I'll  take  my  oath  that  I'll  see  you  comm*  walkin'  in  like  a 
May  mornin'  afore  I'm  up  on  the  floor  a  crack  with  Peggy." 

Maureen  gave  her  bundle  one  final  jerk,  and  Mike  one  final 
glance,  as  she  turned  away. 

"  An'  if  you  do,"  she  said,  "  I'll  give  ye  lave  in  full  to  take  as 
lies  every  word  I've  said  to-night,  an'  every  cold  word  that  iver 
I  said  since  you  begun  to  spake  to  me  this  ways.  A  pleasant  dance 
to  you,  then,  with  Peggy  Moran.     Good  evenin' !  " 

She  turned  off  abruptly,  and  struck  out  on  her  homeward 
path.  Mike  gave  one  passionate  look  after  her,  and  then  marched 
away  in  the  other  direction,  whistling  "  The  Little  House  under 
the  Hill,"  with  all  his  might. 

The  defiant  echoes  shrilled  about  Maureen's  ears  as  she  hastened 
on.  She  was  near  her  home  now.  The  rough  shingle  of  the 
North  Beach  opened  grey  and  wide  before  her.  Here  and  there  a 
tall  crag  stood  up  like  a  ghoul  and  wrapped  the  shadows  about  it. 
Inland,  falls  and  hills  had  changed  from  brown  to  black.  A 
purple  darkness  had  settled  over  the  track  she  had  travelled.  The 
sound  of  the  tossing  surf  became  more  loudly  audible  at  every 
step,  and  the  "  village,"  an  irregular  mustering  of  cabins,  sent 
forth  a  grateful  savour  of  turf  smoke  upon  the  raw  lonely  air. 
Lights  twinkled  here  and  there  from  windows,  and  the  red  glow 
of  the  fire  shone  under  every  open  doorway.  Before  passing  the 
first  of  these  doors,  Maureen  stopped  and  wiped  a  hot  tear  or  two 
from  her  cheek  with  her  apron.  Then  she  hurried  on,  lightening 
her  step  as  she  trod  the  rough  causeway  of  the  "  village,"  thread- 
ing her  way  amongst  her  neighbours'  houses,  and  hearing  from 
many  an  ingle  as  she  passed  the  ruddy  thresholds,  "  There's 
Maureen  Lacey  gettin'  home,  poor  girl !  " 

At  one  of  the  furthest  cabins  facing  the  sea  Maureen  stopped,  and 
stepped  over  the  door-step  into  the  firelit  shelter.  Her  eyes,  accus- 
tomed to  the  red  smoky  atmosphere,  saw  her  stepmother  sitting  at 
the  hearth-stone  with  a  child  upon  her  knee,  and  some  four  or  five 
other  little  ones  grouped  about  the  embers  at  their  play.  These 
Maureen  had  expected  to  see,  but  her  eyes  went  straight  from 
them  to  two  other  figures,  less  familiar.  Two  visitors,  a  man  and 
a  woman,  were  seated  properly  on  chairs,  visitor-like,  at  a  respect- 
ful distance  from  the  fire.  On  these,  for  the  sin  of  their  presence, 
Maureen's  glance  passed  severe  judgment. 

"  Save  ye,  Con  Lavelle ! "  she  said,  slowly,  as  she  closed  the 
door  behind  her.     "  Save  ye,  Nan ! " 

And  then,  without  heeding  their  response,  she  went  to  the 

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Maureen  Lacey.  237 

furthest  corner  of  the  cabin,  and  threw  her  bundle  of  heather  from 
her  back  upon  a  heap  of  turf.  Straightening  her  bent  figure  with 
a  sigh  of  relief,  she  untied  the  blue  kerchief  from  her  head,  and 
knotted  it  loosely  round  her  ner.'k.  She  passed  her  hand  over  her 
hair,  damp  with  the  dew,  and  smoothed  back  a  straggling  lock  or 
two.  Then,  with  her  arms  full  of  turf,  she  came  silently  over  to 
the  hearth,  and  began  to  "  make  down "  a  good  roaring  fire  to 
boil  the  potatoes  for  the  supper.  The  visitors  drew  back  tc  give 
her  more  room,  and  the  stepmother  whispered,  as  she  bent  forward 
to  the  blaze. 

"  Who  was  walkin'  on  the  bog  with  you,  Maureen  P  " 

A  flash  leaped  out  of  the  girPs  eyes.  She  went  on  with  her 
task  in  silence  for  about  a  minute,  and  then  she  said,  in  a  steady 
voice,  loud  enough  for  the  others  to  hear : 

"  If  ye  hard  there  was  any  wan,  mother,  ye  hard  who  it  was 
and  so  I  needn't  tell  you  what  you  knowed  before." 

"  What  was  he  sayin'  to  you,  asthore  P  " 

"  It's  no  matther  to  anybody  what  he  was  sayin\  He's  plottin 
no  murther,  that  his  words  should  be  kep'  an'  counted." 

"  An*  what  did  you  say  to  him,  avourneen  P  " 

"  Nothin'  that  went  again  my  promise  to  you,  mother.  An' 
now  that  you've  sifted  and  sarched  me  before  strangers,  we'll  talk 
about  somethin'  else,  an'  ye  plase ! " 

So  saying,  Maureen  rose  to  her  feet  with  a  brusqueness  of 
manner  that  cut  the  dialogue  short.  The  visitors,  uneasily  silent 
while  it  had  lasted,  now  shuffled  in  their  seats  with  relief.  Con 
cleared  his  throat,  and  Nan  clattered  her  chair  closer  to  the  hearth. 
Maureen  drew  a  stool  from  the  corner  and  sat  down,  leaning  her 
back  wearily  against  the  ingle  wall.  Nan  Lavelle,  a  good-humoured 
looking,  rugged-faced  young  woman,  in  a  bran-new  green  gown, 
was  the  first  to  speak. 

"  We  come,  Con  an1  me,"  said  Nan,  "  to  see  if  you'd  go  with 
us  to  the  dance  at  Biddy  Prendergast's.  There's  to  be  two  pipers, 
no  less,  wan  Tady  Kelly,  from  Mayo  side,  f orbye  our  own  Paudeen  ; 
an'  the  two's  to  be  at  it  hard  an'  fast  for  which  has  the  best  music. 
They  say  that  this  Tady  has  great  waltzes  an'  gran'  fashions,  but 
Paudeen's  the  best  warrant  for  the  jig-tunes  afther.  An'  there's 
to  be  tay  up  in  Biddy's  new  room,  an'  duckin'  for  apples,  an' 
jumpin'  at  candles.  Sorra  sich  a  turn-out  ever  you  seen !  You'll 
come,  Maureen  P  " 

At  the  beginning  of   this  address,    Maureen  had  changed 


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238  Maureen  Lacey. 

colour  quickly,  and,  seizing  the  tongs,  had  commenced  a  fresh 
attack  on  the  fire.     Now  she  answered  readily  : 

"  I  thank  you,  Nan,"  she  said,  "  for  comin'  so  far  out  o*  yer 
way  for  me  ;  an'  I'm  obliged  to  yer  brother,  too.  But  I  think  I'll 
not  stir  out  again  to-night." 

"  Och  now,  Maureen,  yer  not  in  airnest ;  yer  not  goin'  to  spen' 
yer  Hallow's  Eve  at  the  fireside  yer  lone.     Sorra  wan  o'  you  !  " 

"I'm  goin'  to  my  bed,  by-an'-by,"  said  Maureen.  "Fm 
thinkin'  it's  the  fittest  place  for  me  that's  been  workin'  hard  since 
four  this  morninV 

"  Ay,  Maureen,  you  work  too  hard,"  6aid  Con  Lavelle,  speak- 
ing for  the  first  time,  shading  his  eyes  with  a  brawny  hand,  while 
he  shot  a  glance  of  tenderness  at  her  from  under  his  massive 
rough-hewn  brows. 

Maureen  flushed  again  as  she  felt  the  glance.  "  That's. for  my 
own  judgment,"  she  said,  impatiently.  "  I'm  young  an'  strong, 
an'  if  ever  I'm  to  work  it's  now  for  sure ;  an'  I  thank  you,  Con  ! " 

"  But  you'll  come  to  the  dance  ?  "  said  Nan,  coaxingly. 

"  No,  Nan ;  I'll  go  to  my  bed." 

"  Well,  if  ever  I  seen  or  hard  of  such  a  girl !  "  said  the  sickly 
stepmother,  fretfully.  "  Heavens  above !  when  I  was  yer  age, 
there  wasn't  a  dance  in  the  island  that  I  wouldn't  be  at.  Come, 
none  o'  yer  laziness,  Maureen !  Bed,  indeed !  I  tell  ye  there's 
nothin'  on  airth  for  restin'  young  bones  afther  a  hard  day's  work 
like  a  good  dance.  Up  with  you,  girl,  an'  put  on  yer  shoes,  an' 
take  the  cloak." 

"  Mother ! "  said  Maureen,  looking  up  in  amazement,  "  don't 
bid  me  for  to  go  to-night.     You  don't  know  what  yer  doin'." 

"  But  I  do  bid  you  for  to  go,  an  if  you  gainsay  me  now,  it'll 
be  the  first  time  in  yer  life.  As  for  not  knowin'  what  I'm  doin', 
it's  a  quare  speech,  Maureen,  an'  wan  I  didn't  expect  from  you. 
Be  off  with  ye,  now !  " 

"  An'  I'm  to  go,  mother  P  " 

"  You're  to  go,  an'  be  quick ! " 

"  Then  let  it  stan'  so,"  said  Maureen,  rising  up  suddenly,  and 
looking  down  at  her  stepmother  with  a  queer  expression  on  her 
face,  "  I'm  doin'  yer  biddin',  an'  come  good  or  come  ill  of  it,  ye 
must  bear  the  burthen.     I'll  go." 

Down  to  the  room  went  Maureen,  with  a  lighted  candle  in 
her  hand,  which  she  stuck  in  a  sconce  on  the  wall. 

"  I  have  sthrived  an'  I  have  wrought,"  muttered  she,  as  with 
trembling  hands  she  began  to  put  on  her  grey  worsted  stockings, 

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Maureen  Lacey.  23ft 

and  the  shoes  that  on  Sundays  and  state  occasions  only,  covered 
her  nimble  feet.  "  I  have  toiled  for  her,  an'  she  niver  would  give  me 
my  will  as  much  as  to  the  sayin'  of  I'll  go  or  I'll  stay. .  Now  I'm  doin* 
her  bidding  as  I  still  have  done  it,  an'  if  ill  comes  out  of  it,  let  her 
look  to  't.  I've  hardened  mysel',  an'  I've  hardened  my seT,  but  I'm 
not  as  hard  as  the  rock  yet.  An1  if  I  go  at  all,  feth  I'll  go  dacent,  an' 
not  be  danced  undher  foot  by  the  grandeur  of  Peggy  Moran,  with  her 
genteel  airs,  an'  her  five  muzlin  flounces,  stickin'  out  all  round  her, 
starched  as  stiff  as  the  grass  in  a  white  frast.  Oh ! " 

Here  Maureen  gave  one  desperate  gasp  of  impatience  to  the 
thought  of  Peggy  Moran,  and  struck  her  heel  on  the  ground  to 
drive  it  home  in  the  unaccustomed  shoe.  Who  should  keep  her 
from  going  to  Biddy  Prendergast's  dance  now  P  Not  all  the  men 
in  Bofin,  armed  to  the  death  with  shillelaghs. 

She  opened  an  old  painted  chest  in  the  corner,  and  produced 
a  gown.  This  gown  had  belonged  to  her  own  dead  mother,  and 
was  the  one  piece  of  finery  which  Maureen  possessed  in  the  world. 
It  was  a  grand  chintz,  with  blue  and  gold-colour  flowers  on  a 
chocolate  ground,  and  fitted  her  figure  to  a  nicety.  This  was 
quickly  assumed,  and  her  long  amber  hair  rolled  round  her  head 
in  as  smooth  a  wreath  as  its  natural  waviness  would  permit  of. 
When  this  was  done,  a  little  cracked  looking-glass  over  the  hearth 
declared  her  toilet  complete.  Then  she  came  back  to  the  kitchen, 
and  while  Con  Lavelle's  admiring  eyes  devoured  her  from  a 
shadowy  corner,  she  served  out  their  supper  of  potatoes  to  the 
children,  and  placed  "  the  grain  of  tay  "  in  a  little  brown  tea-pot, 
burnt  black,  on  the  hearth  within  reach  of  her  stepmother's  hand. 
These  things  done,  she  put  the  key  of  the  house  in  her  pocket, 
and  taking  "the  cloak,"  a  family  garment,  she  followed  her 
friends  out  of  the  cabin  into  a  calm  moonlit  night,  which  had  re- 
placed the  gloomy  twilight. 

Biddy  Prendergast's  house  was  in  the  Middle  Quarter  village, 
a  good  walk  from  the  Widow  Lacey's.  When  Maureen  and  the 
Lavelles  arrived  at  the  festive  scene,  operations  had  already  com- 
menced. Screams  of  laughter  greeted  their  entrance,  from  a 
crowd  of  boys  and  girls  who  were  ducking  for  apples  in  a  tub  of 
water  behind  the  door.  The  kitchen  was  lighted  by  a  huge  turf 
fire  that  roared  up  the  reeking  chimney.  In  the  smoky  rafters 
hens  dozed,  and  nets  dangled*  Flitches  of  bacon  and  bunches  of 
dried  fish  swung  in  the  draught  when  the  door  was  opened.  Biddy 
Prendergast  was  a  well-to-do  woman,  one  of  the  island  aristocrats. 
In  the  ingle  nook  two  or  three  colliaghs,  anglic£  crones,  were  toast- 

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240  Maureen  Lacey. 

ing  their  knees  and  holding  their  chat,  while  the  light  leaped  over 
their  worn  red  petticoats  and  withered  faces  and  hands.  In  a 
retired  corner  was  Paudeen,  the  island  piper,  wrinkled  and  white- 
haired,  sitting  with  his  knowing  eyes  half  closed,  droning  and 
tuning  at  his  pipes,  holding  commune  with  fchem,  as  it  were,  rally- 
ing and  inspiring  all  their  energies  for  the  coming  struggle  with 
the  rival  pipes  and  piper,  who  had  come  to  dispute  the  palm  for 
skilful  harmonies  with  the  Bofin  instrument  and  the  Bofin  musician. 
Tady,  the  other  performer,  was  "  down  in  the  room  "  at  his  tea. 
And  "down  to  the  room"  went  our  party  from  the  North 
Beach. 

In  this  room  a  notable  assemblage  was  convened.  A  long 
board,  contrived  by  means  of  se\eral  small  tables,  was  spread  with 
tea,  soda  cakes,  "  crackers,"  and  potato  cakes,  several  pounds  of 
butter  in  a  large  roll  being  placed  in  the  centre  on  a  dish.  A  bed, 
with  blue  checker  curtains  and  patchwork  counterpane,  choked  up 
one  corner  of  the  room,  leaving  no  space  for  chairs.  This  difficulty 
was  comfortably  ignored  by  the  guests  sitting  on  the  bed,  and 
nursing  their  cups  and  platters  on  their  knees.  Those  opposite 
were  less  fortunate,  as  the  heels  of  their  chairs  were  nearly  tread- 
ing on  the  hearth.  All  the  Mite  of  Bofin  were  here.  There  was 
Timothy  Joyce,  the  national  schoolmaster,  about  whose  learning 
there  were  dark  reports.  It  was  whispered  that  he  had  a  crack 
right  across  the  top  of  his  skull,  occasioned  by  too  reckless  a  pro- 
secution of  abstruse  studies  in  his  youth,  and  that  this  was  why  he 
wore  his  hair  so  long,  and  brushed  so  smooth  and  close  above  his 
forehead.  There  was  Martin  Leahy,  the  boat-maker,  the  ring  of 
whose  cheerful  hammer  on  the  beach,  late  and  early,  helped  the 
larks  and  the  striking  oars  in  the  harbour  to  make  music  all 
through  the  summer  months.  There  was  Mick  Coyne  Mack,  the 
last  name  signifying  "  son,"  an  Irish  way  of  saying  "  junior." 
He  was  clerk  in  the  chapel,  a  spare  grizzled  man,  a  great  hand  at 
praying  and  discoursing,  a  famous  voteen  (devotee),  and  almost  as 
good  at  an  argument  as  the  schoolmaster  himself.  Then  there  was 
Tady,  the  strange  piper,  who  having  penetrated  as  far  as  Dublin 
and  Belfast  in  the  course  of  his  scientific  researches,  and  picked  up 
odd  polkas  and  operatic  airs  from  hurdy-gurdys  and  German  bands, 
was  looked  upon  with  much  awe,  as  a  superior  professor  of  music, 
There  was  a  youpg  man,  a  cousin  of  an  islander,  who  had  just 
returned  from  America,  with  genteel  clothes,  a  fine  nasal  twang  in 
his  speech,  and  plenty  of  anecdote  about  foreign  lands.  And 
though  last,  not  least,  there  was  the  captain  of  a  trading  sail  ship 

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Maureen  Lacey.  241 

which,  on  her  way  from  Spain  to  Liverpool,  had  been  driven  out 
of  her  course  and  taken  refuge  in  Bofin  harbour. 

Biddy  Prendergast,  a  plain-faced  woman  in  a  grand  dress  cap 
and  plaid  gown,  was  making  tea  at  the  head  of  her  board,  in  high 
spirits.  She  was  talking  volubly,  joking  and  laughing  at  Mike 
Tiernay,  who  with  a  huge  black  kettle  in  hand  was  replenishing 
her  earthen  teapot.  Every  now  and  again  she  winked  at  Peggy 
Moran,  who  sat  close  by,  with  her  back  to  the  fire,  in  all  the  glory 
of  the  five  muslin  flounces,  a  knot  of  red  ribbons  blazing  under 
her  chin,  and  her  great  black  eyes  dancing  responsive  to  Biddy's 
winks,  or  falling  demurely  on  her  teacup  when  handsome  Mike 
looked  her  way.  Not  a  doubt,  but  Mike  was  the  best-looking  man 
in  the  house,  tall,  and  manly,  and  bronzed ;  with  his  coaxing  voice, 
and  his  roguish  smile,  and  his  frank  way  of  tossing  the  dark  hair 
from  his  forehead  by  a  fling  of  his  head.  Peggy,  the  belle,  had 
long  desired  to  count  him  on  the  list  of  her  admirers.  Peggy  had 
three  cows  and  two  feather-beds  ta  her  dower ;  the  finest  fortune 
in  Bofin.  Biddy,  through  pure  good  will  to  Mike,  her  favourite, 
was  trying  to  make  a  match  between  him  and  the  heiress,  all 
unknown  to  the  elder  Morans,  who  would  sooner  have  seen  their 
daughter  mistress  of  Con  Lavelle's  fine  farm  at  Fawnmore.  Biddy's 
hints  and  Peggy's  handsome  eyes  had  until  to-night  remained 
unheeded.  Now  there  was  a  sudden  change.  Mike  was  remark- 
ably civil  to  both  of  these  ladies.  He  tucked  Peggy's  flounces 
carefully  away  from  the  fire,  and  helped  her  twice  to  crackers* 
Peggy  dimpled  and  blushed,  and  Biddy  laughed  and  winked,  and 
Mike  was  in  the  act  of  pouring  the  water  into  the  teapot,  when  the 
door  was  pushed  open  and  Maureen  and  her  friends  came  in. 

A  scream  from  Biddy  greeted  their  entrance.  "Bad  manners 
to  it  for  a  kittle !  "  cried  Mike,  getting  very  red  in  the  face.  "  Is 
the  finger  scalded  aff  o*  you  entirely  ?  Sure  if  it  is  I'll  put  a  ring 
on  it  for  a  plasther,  an'  if  that  doesn't  mend  it,  sorra  more  can  I 
do." 

The  finger  was  suitably  bound  and  bemoaned,  and  Biddy  par- 
doned the  offender,  forgot  her  pains  like  a  heroine,  and  attended 
to  her  new  guests. 

u  Come  down,  Con,  come  down,  man,  here's  a  sate  by  the  fire. 
The  night's  could.  Good  luck  to  ye,  Nan,  hang  yer  cloak  on  the 
door  there,  an'  come  down  an'  ate  a  bit  o'  somethin'.  Yer  welcome, 
Maureen  Lacey !  Make  room,  girls,  an'  let  her  come  down.  It's 
seldom  we  get  you  to  come  out.  An'  how's  the  rumatics  with  yer 
mother  P" 

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242  Maureen  Lacey. 

Con  Lavelle  being  an  important  man,  the  richest  farmer  in  the 
island,  was  soon  forced  into  a  seat  by  the  fire,  and  he  and  his 
sister  had  their  wants  quickly  attended  to.  Maureen,  who  was 
looked  on  by  the  hostess  as  rather  an  interloper,  was  not  so  eagerly 
noticed.  Maureen  felt  this  with  a  swelling  heart.  The  next 
moment  Mike  had  shouldered  his  way  to  her,  had  cleared  a  place 
for  her  on  the  bed,  and  taken  his  seat  beside  her,  just  at  the  corner, 
where  he  could  draw  back  his  head  behind  the  looping  of  the 
curtain,  and  look  at  her  proud  downcast  face  as  much  as  he  pleased. 
Maureen,  with  a  huge  cup  and  saucer  in  her  hands,  trembled  so, 
that  she  spilled  the  tea  all  over  her  grand  chintz  gown.  Sitting 
there  opposite  to  Peggy  Moran's  jealous  eyes,  with  Mike  leal  and 
true  beside  her,  Maureen  struggled  in  the  toils  of  the  temptation 
to  turn  round  and  smile  in  his  face,  and  ask  him  to  hand  her  a 
piece  of  cake.  She  knew  that  Mike  was  thinking  of  her  last 
words  to  him  on  the  bog,  knew  it  by  his  jubilant  air,  and  the  fire 
from  his  eyes  that  shone  on  her  from  behind  the  looping  of  the 
curtain.  The  temptation  fought  within  her  to  let  him  have  it  his 
own  way.  In  the  whirling  vision  of  a  second  she  saw  herself 
Mike's  wife,  mistress  of  a  snug  little  shelter  at  the  East  End, 
making  ready  the  hearth  for  Mike  coming  home  from  his  fishing. 
No  more  drenching  in  the  high  spring  tides,  battling  with  storm 
and  rain,  carrying  home  the  sea-rack  on  angry  midnights.  No 
more  long  days  of  labour  in  the  fields  of  strangers  for  the  wretched 
earning  of  sixpence  a  day.  No  more  lecturings  from  a  fretful 
stepmother,  but  always  these  strong  hands  beside  her,  and  always 
these  tender  eyes.  Oh,  for  Mike  she  could  gladly  work,  with  him 
could  starve  if  need  be.  These  things  strove  within  Maureen  as 
she  sat  spilling  her  tea  over  her  grand  chintz  gown.  But  the  old 
strain  of  duty,  of  pity  for  those  depending  on  her,  of  fidelity  to 
her  promise  to  her  stepmother,  still  kept  its  echo  sounding  in  her 
ears,  though  but  dimly  and  from  afar  off.  The  temptation  shook 
her ;  but  when  the  gust  allayed  itself,  she  regained  her  vantage 
ground,  breathless,  but  sure  of  foot.  The  habit  of  restraint  was 
-strong  within  her.  She  did  not  turn  and  smile  on  Mike ;  neither 
did  she  ask  him  for  a  piece  of  cake. 

Peggy  Moran,  sitting  with  her  back  to  the  fire,  was  beginning 
to  get  very  red  in  the  face.  Biddy  Prendergast's  wit  had  fallen 
♦dead.  There  was  no  one  to  tuck  Peggy's  flounces  away  from  the 
blaze,  nor  to  hold  the  kettle  gallantly  for  Biddy.  Maureen  sitting 
there,  filling  the  moments  for  herself  with  the  intense  vitality  of 
flier  own  hard  struggle,  was  looked  upon  by  her  two  female  neigh- 


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Maureen  Lacey.  243 

"hours  as  an  unpardonable  poacher  on  their  promising  preserves. 
But  tea  was  over  now,  and  the  two  pipers  were  sending  forth 
rival  squeaks  and  groans  in  the  kitchen.  Young  feet  were  restless, 
and  old  feet  too.  The  "  room  "  was  deserted,  and  the  dancing 
began  with  spirit. 

Maureen  had  made  one  gallant  struggle,  but  it  was  hard  to  be 
proof  against  all  the  enchantments  of  this  most  trying  night. 
When  Mike,  whom  many  glancing  eyes  coveted  for  a  partner, 
eagerly  pressed  her  for  the  first  dance,  her  customary  short  reply 
was  not  ready  ;  and  she  found  herself  up  on  the  floor  by  his  side 
before  she  had  time  to  think  about  it.  As  for  Mike,  he  was  wild 
with  spirits.  He  saw  Maureen's  conduct  in  the  light  in  which  she 
knew  he  would  see  it.  He  thought  she  had  relented  at  last,  and 
made  up  her  mind  to  smile  on  him  for  the  future.  By-and-by 
Maureen  caught  the  spirit  of  the  dance ;  panting  and  smiling,  she 
tripped  it  with  the  nimblest  amongst  them.  Everything  began  to 
slip  away  but  the  intense  delight  of  the  moment.  Blushing  rosy 
red,  her  eyes  sparkling,  her  hair  shining  and  shaking  out  in  little 
gleaming  rings  about  her  forehead  her  face  developed  a  radiant 
beauty  that  hardly  seemed  to  belong  to  the  grave  Maureen.  An 
overheard  whisper  from  some  one  to  another — "  Lord !  such  a 
handsome  slip  as  that  girl  of  poor  Lacey's  is  growm',"  did  not 
tend  to  sober  this  hour  of  elation.  The  flush  of  conscious  youth,  and 
health,  and  beauty,  glowed  on  Maureen's  cheek.  All  the  sunny 
ardour  of  her  Irish  nature,  so  long  kept  under,  the  smouldering 
love,  the  keen  relish  for  harmless  pleasure,  the  laughter-loving 
enjoyment  of  wit  and  humour,  burst  forth  from  within  her  for  this 
one  glorious  evening,  and  shone  in  her  beautiful  face,  and  made 
music  in  the  beat  of  her  brogues  on  the  floor. 

Peggy  Moran  and  the  young  man  from  America  with  whom 
she  consoled  herself,  tried  to  get  up  one  genteel  round  of  the 
waltz.  This  being  finished,  Paudeen  the  piper  asked  Maureen, 
in  compliment  to  her  dancing,  to  tell  him  her  favourite 
tune.  Whereupon  Maureen,  with  a  sly  laugh  in  her  eyes,  asked 
for  The  Little  House  under  the  Hill.  This  was  Paudeen's  greatest 
tune,  and  at  it  he  went  with  the  will  of  a  giant,  his  white  hair 
shaking,  his  wrinkled  cheeks  bursting,  and  his  one  leg  with  its 
blue-ribbed  stocking  and  brogue,  hopping  up  and  down  under  his 
pipes  with  might  and  enthusiasm.  How  he  shrilled  and  shrieked 
it,  how  he  groaned  and  wheezed  it,  and  how  all  the  company 
joined  in  at  last  and  danced  it !     How  it  was  stamped,  and  shuffled, 


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244  Maureen  Lacey. 

how  the  deafening  clatter  of  feet,  and  the  "  whoops !  "  and 
"  hurroos ! "  rose  up  to  Biddy  Prendergast's  smoky  rafters  and 
wakened  the  hens,  and  set  them  a  clacking,  and  how  Tady,  the 
vanquished  professor,  sat  sad  in  the  corner  and  mused  on  the 
primitive  state  of  uncivilisation  in  which  these  benighted  Bofiners 
were  plunged !  There  was  only  one  other  who  did  not  join  in  the 
dance,  and  who  stood  with  his  long  loose  figure  drawn  up  against 
•  the  wall  in  a  corner,  his  wistful  eyes  searching  the  crowd  of 
bobbing  heads  for  the  occasional  glimpse  of  one  face.  Con  Lavelle 
was  full  of  uneasiness.  Only  once  had  he  smiled  to-night,  and 
that  was  when  the  Liverpool  captain  (who,  ignorant  of  Irish  jigs- 
and  their  mysteries,  had  until  now  kept  him  company  in  his 
corner)  had  delivered  his  weighty  opinion  that  Maureen  Lacey  was 
the  best  dancer,  and  the  prettiest  girl  in  the  house.  But  the 
captain  had  caught  the  contagion  at  last  and  joined  the  crowd,  and 
Con  Lavelle  was  alone. 

After  this  jig  was  over,  the  house  being  literally  "  too  hot  to 
hold  "  the  dancers,  they  turned  out  in  couples,  some  to  go  home, 
others  only  to  cool  themselves  in  the  moonlight,  and  return.  Of 
these  latter  were  Mike  Tiernay  and  Maureen  Lacey.  Under  the 
shelter  of  Biddy's  gable  wall  Mike  got  leave  at  last  to  "  spake "' 
all  he  had  tried  to  say  so  often,  and  Maureen  cut  him  short  with  no 
cross  answers.     He  told  his  news,  and  he  "  axed"  his  question. 


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(    246 ...) 


A  RHYMED  ROSARY. 
L  Thjb  Five  Joyful  Mystkribs. 


A  MAIDEN'S  bower  and  a  lily  in  bud— 
A  maid  in  her  stainless  maidenhood  ; 
South  wind  blowing,  and  young  leares  showing  : 
'*  Are,  Mary,''  an  angel  sayeth 
Whose  rapt  look  prayeth. 


Grey-blue  sides,  and  the  hills  are  clear, 
Mary  greeting  her  cousin  dear, 
Raiseth  her  as  she  kneeleth  in  fear, 
"  Whence  is  it  to  me  the  Lord's  Mother  cometh  P 
Saith  Elizabeth. 

in. 

Silver  of  frost,  and  the  stars  are  cold, 
But  the  singing  angels  are  winged  with  gold, 
O  desolate  is  the  new  King's  state, 
His  palace  a  stable !  but  warm  his  rest 
In  His  Mother's  breast. 

IV. 

The  Temple  white  in  the  noon-eun's  glare ; 
Mary  the  Spouse  of  the  Carpenter 
Fair  and  mild,  with  her  nine-days'  Ohild, 
The  old  priest  lifteth  his  sightless  eyes — 
Lo,  he  prophesies ! 


Up  and  down,  through  the  hot  streets'  stir, 
She  seeketh  the  Child  who  hath  strayed  from  her ; 
In  the  Temple's  gloom  are  lilies  in  bloom, 
By  the  fount  stands  the  Boy,  and  the  Rabbis  hoar 
Drinking  His  lore. 

II.  Thb  Fivr  Sorrowful  Mysteries. 

i. 
Out  in  the  night,  on  the  wet  ground  prone, 
Christ  dreeth  His  agony  all  alone ; 
Grey  shapes  are  these  that  glide  through  the  trees, 
World's  sins  for  whose  burden  He  travaileth, 
Tea,  bleedeth  to  death. 
Vol.  xrv.  No.  155.  19 


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216  Ptdure+fnmthe.Itosarff. 


Why  do  they  scourge  IJim  so  terribly  P 
That  you  and  I,  for  ever,  go  free. 
His  body's  one  wound  that  purpleth  the  ground ; 
Sweet  Blood,  drip  on  me  kneeling  below 

Wash  me  like  snow ! 

•    '  '  *     /. 

mi 

Purple  robes  for  the  King  of  the  land, 
A  thorny  crown,  and  a  reed  in  His  hand. 
O  world's  disgrace !  one  spat  on  His  face 
Where  the  blood  was  flowing,  but  my  meek  Lord 
Said  never  a  word. 


IV. 

Heavy  the  Gross  that  His  shoulders  bear — 
All  sin  and  sorrow,  all  shame  and  care, 
There  is  blood  on  His  path,  He  reeleth  to  death ; — 
"Child,  wilt  thou  help  Me  up  Calvary's  steep  hill  ?  " 
Yea,  Lord,  I  will! 


Two  arms  stretched  wide  on  their  torture-bed, 
A  sky  grown  black,  and  a  sun  blood-red 
Most  f  orsakenly  rings  His  broken  cry ; 
His  Mother  hears  it,  and  shudders  at  it, 
Her  face  to  His  feet. 


ni.  The  Five  Glorious  Mysteries. 

i. 

O  Easter  morn's  like  a  rose  new-blown ! 
And  at  dawn  the  angels  have  lifted  the  stone ; 
The  three-days'  Slain  is  arisen  again ; 
His  mother  sees  Him  all  glorified 
like  the  sun  at  noon-tide. 


xx. 

For  forty  days  they  looked  on  His  face, 
And  He  was  tender  those  forty  days. 
When  a  gold  cloud  took  Him,  their  eyes  were  dim, 
Yet  some  gazing  up,  through  a  rift  in  the  skies, 
Saw  His  Paradise. 


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Gerhard  Sohneemann.  247 

in. 

The  twelre  and  Mary  yearning  with  lovef. 
Lonely,  pray  Him  to  send  His  dove ; 
In  the  dawning  grey  of  the  white  Sunday, 
It  flieth  in  flame  where  in  prayer  they  bow 
And  kiaseth  each  brow, 

iv. 

u  How  long,  0  Son?  n  she  hath  prayed  with  tears, 
Keeping  her  vigil  through  twelre  long  years ; 
Then  Gabriel  came,  with  hie  torch  aflame, 
Who  bore  her  far,  and  she  saw  her  Son 
Ere  the  day  was  done. 


With  twelve  great  stars  is  she  aureoled, 
And  her  floating  raiment  is  cloudy  gold ; 
Her  throne  of  bliss  by  her  Son's  throne  is, 
And  ever  she  gazeth  up  to  His  face. 
Hail, full  of  grace! 

Katharine  Tynan. 


GEEHAED    SCHNEBMANN. 
By  the  Ebv.  Peter  Finlay,  S.J. 

GEEHAED  Schneemann's  name  must  be  quite  unknown  to  most 
Irish  readers.  Those,  perhaps,  who  are  familiar  with  the 
■Church  History  of  Germany  during  the  last  twenty  years  will 
know  something  of  the  man,  or  at  least  of  the  work  he  helped  to 
accomplish ;  and  a  very  few  may  remember  him  as  the  friend 
whom  they  learned  to  esteem  and  love  at  Laach,  at  Bonn,  or  at 
Aix-la-Chapelle.  But  to  Catholics  in  general  his  name  can  be 
only  an  empty  sound.  We  are  not  used  to  take  any  eager  interest 
in  foreign  religious  struggles;  our  thoughts  are  given  almost 
wholly  to  the  contest  in  which  we  are  engaged  ourselves ;  and  we 
have  long  ceased  to  look  either  for  sympathy  or  example  to  our 
co-religionists  on  the  European  continent  Still,  a  brief  sketch  of 
Father  Schneemann's  life  will,  probably,  be  acceptable  to  many, 
-and  must  be  rich  in  lessons  for  us  all — for  all  of  us,  at  least,  who 


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248  Gerhard  Schneemann. 

know  what  German  Catholicism  was  some  half  a  century  ago,  and 
what  a  power  it  is  to-day.  It  is  to  men  like  him  that  the  Church 
in  North  Germany  is  indebted  for  the  proud  position  she  has  won 
and  holds — for  the  fact  that  she  is  a  Church  of  fervent  millions, 
pure  in  faith,  strengthened  by  trial,  devoted  to  Rome,  knit  together 
in  an  unconquerable  organization,  which  all  the  might  of  false 
brethren  and  civil  tyranny,  with  wiles,  and  threats,  and  violence, 
has  failed  to  break  or  weaken. 

He  was  born  in  1829,  at  Wesel,  on  the  Lower  Rhine.  The 
Catholics  of  that  old  Hanseatic  town,  hemmed  in  by  an  heretical 
majority,  were  jealous  guardians  of  a  faith  which  it  had  cost  them 
many  a  struggle  to  preserve.  Weak  natures  yield  readily  to  the 
influence  of  unfavourable  surroundings ;  strong  ones,  in  the  same 
circumstances,  put  forth  all  their  strength  and  reach  a  perfect 
development,  to  which  they  otherwise  could  never  have  attained. 
The  Catholicism  of  Ulster,  in  our  own  country,  owes  something  of 
its  frank  manliness  and  generosity  to  the  contact  and  the  hostility 
of  Puritanical  error,  though  elsewhere  we  see  faith  weakened  and 
even  lost  from  association  with  less  intolerant  forms  of  misbelief. 
In  Wesel,  Catholicism  was  of  the  Ulster  type ;  and  its  influences 
left  an  enduring  mark  on  Gerhard  Schneemann's  character.  Ten- 
derly devout  like  his  mother,  "  the  most  prayerful  woman  in  all 
Wesel,"  as  he  used  to  speak  of  her  in  after-life,  earnest  in  every 
good  work  for  the  good  of  souls,  singularly  kind  to  the  poor, 
patient  and  gentle  with  all  who  were  honestly  seeking  for  the  truth,, 
or  striving,  however  imperfectly,  to  realise  it  in  action,  he  would 
never  sacrifice  principle  to  expediency,  never  purchase  the  friend- 
ship or  the  tolerance  of  his  enemies  by  any  faint-hearted  betrayal 
of  the  Church's  cause. 

After  brilliant  classical  studies  at  the  w  Weseler  gymnasium/* 
young  Schneemann  was  sent  to  the  university  of  Bonn,  in  the  autumn 
of  1845.  He  joined  the  Faculty  of  Law,  and  his  legal  studies  made 
rapid  progress.  But  Bonn  had  a  Faculty  of  Theology  also ;  and 
his  intimacy  with  some  of  the  theological  students  seems  to  have 
soon  directed  his  thoughts  towards  the  priesthood.  During  the  three 
years  he  lived  at  Bonn,  his  vocation  ripened  secretly ;  the  fourth 
year,  even,  of  his  university  course,  which  he  spent  at  Miinster, 
was  given  to  the  law ;  but  in  the  autumn  of  1819  his  final  decision 
was  taken  and  announced,  and  he  entered  an  ecclesiastical  seminary. 
It  was  characteristic  of  the  man  that  he  should  wish  to  fit  himself 
for  the  Church's  work,  and  drink  in  her  spirit,  at  her  life's  centre*. 
He  was  Roman  and  papal  to  the  heart's  core.     In  1850  he  set  out 


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Gerhard  Schneemann.  249 

lor  Rome,  and  took  up  his  residence  there,  in  the  German  College, 
then,  as  now,  under  the  direction  of  the  Jesuits.  An  interesting 
letter,  of  which  we  can  give  only  a  brief  extract,  explains  his  new 
position,  his  motives  for  choosing  it,  and  his  state  of  mind  in  it. 
*"  You  seem  to  think,"  he  writes  to  his  parents,  "  that  I  am  quite 
undecided,  unable  to  judge  for  myself,  and  following  blindly  the 
advice  of  others.  This  is  not  the  case.  The  truth  is  I  have  long 
been  anxious  to  become  a  Jesuit ;  even  before  starting  for  Rome, 
I  had  almost  quite  resolved  to  do  so ;  and  one  of  my  reasons  for 
selecting  the  German  College  was  that  I  might  be  able  to  see  and 
examine  their  life  closely,  and  so  judge  for  myself.  All  this  I 
explained  in  detail  to  some  of  my  Miinster  friends.  Since  coming 
here,  I  have  spoken  on  the  matter  only  to  my  confessor  and  the 
Rector,  whose  kindness  and  prudence  have  been  beyond  all  praise- 
Not  only  have  they  not  urged  me  to  enter  among  them,  but  they 
seemed  rather  to  put  difficulties  in  the  way,  impressed  on  me  the 
danger  of  coming  to  a  decision  hurriedly,  and  counselled  me  to 
give  it  time  and  calm  consideration.  I  have  done  so ;  and  the 
result  is  a  decided  resolve  to  enter :  I  shall  be  able  to  labour  most 
safely  for  my  own  salvation  and  for  that  of  others/'  &c. 

It  was  a  painful  sacrifice  for  his  family,  especially  for  his  mother. 
"  I  knew  nothing  of  religious  life,"  she  said  afterwards,  "  and  I 
thought  my  son's  love  was  to  be  estranged  from  me ;  but  I  soon 
learned  that  his  heart  was  all  ours  still,  and  that  there  was  neither 
a  joy  nor  a  sorrow  in  our  home,  in  which  he  did  not  share."  Ger- 
hard Schneemann  was  no  false  ascetic :  he  could  not  believe  that 
love  of  God  should  weaken  love  of  kindred,  or  that  the  counsels  of 
the  Divine  law  freed  men  from  the  obligation  of  its  commandments. 

In  November,  1851,  he  entered  the  noviceship  at  Friedrichsburg ; 
and  for  the  next  few  years  there  is  nothing  to  chronicle  in  his 
quiet  life  of  prayer  and  study.  After  his  ordination,  at  the  close 
of  1856,  we  find  him  as  a  Missionary  Priest  at  Cologne,  and  a  little 
later,  part  professor,  part  missioner  at  Bonn  and  Aix-la-Chapelle, 
until  the  German  Jesuits  opened  a  house  of  higher  studies  at 
Laacher  See. 

Between  Bonn  and  Mayence,  in  one  of  the  most  beautiful  of  the 
Rhine  valleys,  and  within  a  short  distance  of  the  great  river,  there 
was  an  old  Benedictine  Abbey.  Far  back,  in  the  eleventh  century, 
Henry  II.,  Count  Palatine  of  the  Rhine,  had  given  over  Laach  and 
its  surroundings  to  St.  Benedict.  The  monks  were  well  pleased  to 
make  their  home  beside  the  deep  wide  lake  which  had  welled  up 
in  the  crater  of  a  dead  volcano.    They  cut  a  channel  through  the 

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250  Gerhard  Sehbeemanft. 

lava  hills  io  carry  off  the  surplus  wafers  to  the  Rhine;  they  gained 
upon  the  lake,  and  formed  fertile  fields  around  its  margin ;  the- 
encircling  hills  were  clothed  and  crowned  with  dark  green  forests 
of  oak,  and  fir,  and  pine ;  and  on  the  western  shore,  between  the- 
wbods  and  water,  they  raised  their  exquisite  Roman  Church  and 
Monastery  of  St.  Mary,  a  gem  almost  worthy  of  its  setting.  For 
more  than  seven  centuries  they  retained  their  ownership ;  but  in 
1802  they  were  dispossessed  by  the  French  Republic,  and  Church 
and  Abbey  were  given  over  to  decay.*  After  sixty  years  of  deso- 
lation the  cloisters  were  restored  to  their  old  uses,  though  not  to 
the  Monks  of  St.  Benedict :  the  Jesuit  students  of  philosophy  and 
theology  were  transferred  from  Paderborn  and  Aix-la-Chapelle  to 
the  half -ruined  abbey,  and  soon  filled  it  with  life  and  labour. 

No  one  who  has  seen  the  spot,  and  believes  solitude  to  be* 
suited  for  all  intellectual  pursuits,  can  have  failed  to  recognise  its 
fitness  for  such  a  purpose.  I  do  not  think  that  educational  isola- 
tion is  without  serious  disadvantage  to  the  best  mental  progress. 
Contact  of  mind  with  living  mind,  contact  even  with  the  views 
and  feelings  and  prejudices  of  the  age  in  which  we  live,  as  well  as 
with  the  history  of  the  past,  is  needed  to  fit  us  for  a  useful  part  in 
the  battle  of  the  present.  It  seems  about  as  wise  to  go  out  into 
the  struggle,  armed  only  with  the  ponderous  learning  of  the 
sixteenth  century  folios,  as  to  meet  needle  guns  and  rifled  cannon 
with  the  matchlocks  and  armour  of  our  ancestors.  Mental  isola- 
tion throws  the  worker  back  on  books,  and  books  almost  necessarily 
give  an  undue  prominence  to  the  past ;  for  the  past  is  fixed  and 
may  be  painted,  while  the  ever  varying  colours  of  the  present  are  only 
to  be  seen.  Books,  moreover,  even  the  very  best  of  them,  can  never 
fully  take  the  place  of  living  thought.  There  are  minds,  it  has 
been  said,  which  can  never  shine  with  their  fullest  and  clearest 
light,  unless  in  rivalry  with  others.  This  is  true  of  nearly  all,  in 
matters  which  divide  opinion.  There  are  few  so  gifted  as  to  con- 
ceive dispassionately  an  adversary's  position,  and  give  his  theories 
and  arguments  a  form  which  would  command  his  own  approval ; 
those  are  fewer  still  who  can  frame  an  answer  to  his  case,  even  aa 
stated  by  themselves,  which  would  stand  the  test  of  a  personal 
discussion  with  him.  The  German  Kriegspiel  is  a  useful  prepara- 
tion for  actual  war ;  and  yet  it  leaves  the  soldier  still  very  unprepared 
for  the  stern  reality.  But  whatever  could  be  done  was  done  at 
Laach  to  foster  study — study,  too,  of  a  very  high  order.    A  new 

*  For  an  account  of  Loach,  see  Ihish  Monthly,  Vol.  V.  (1877),  p.  618* 

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Qerhard  Schneemann.  251, 

wing  was  built  ta  serve  as  a  library,  which:  soon  counted  .over 
30,000  volumes;  collections  were  formed,  and  lectures  given  in 
mineralogy,  botany,  and  other  natural; sciences;  philosophy  and 
theology,  of  course,  were  specially  attended  to ;  and  what  was  of 
great  importance — students  flowed  in,  not  from  Germany  alone, 
bat  from  France  and  .Belgium,  from  Ireland,  Switzerland,  and 
Italy.  The  rivalry  of  schools  of  thought  was  wanting,  and  its 
loss  was  felt  both  by  students  and  professors ;  but  the  rivalry  of 
individual  minds  abounded,  and  did  much  to  make  the  loss  as  little 
hurtful  as  it  ever  can  be. 

About  this  time  the  representatives  of  German  theological 
science  were  attracting  a  very  widespread  attention.  For  many 
years  two  schools  had  been  in  process  of  formation  amongst  them ; 
one  filled  with  reverence  for  the  great  Catholic  Doctors  of  the 
Middle  Ages,  and  anxiotis  to  follow  out  and  perfect  their  teaching 
on  the  lines  which  they  had  traced ;  the  other  given  over  to  a 
worship  of  modern  thought,  and  bent  upon  laying  a  new  founda- 
tion for  the  Faith,  in  recent  theories  of  philosophy  and  critical 
historical  research.  It  was  impossible  each  should  develop,  at 
peace  with  its  neighbour;  for,  however  willing  the  new  scho- 
lasticism, as  it  was  called,  might  be  to  accept  all  that  was  best  in 
modern  science,  it  could  not  but  protest  against  a  method  which 
claimed  to  be  Catholic,  while  insisting  on  absolute  freedom  of 
inquiry,  uncontrolled  by  the  obligation  of  harmonising  its  results 
with  the  mind  and  teaching  of  the  Church.  War  was  openly 
declared  between  them  at  the  Munich  Congress  of  1863.  Osten- 
sibly called  together  for  the  purpose  of  uniting  all  the  energies  of 
Catholic  learning  against  a  common  enemy,  Dr.  Dollinger,  its 
president,  made  it  serve  almost  entirely  to  glorify  himself  and  his 
followers,  to  decry  and  vilify  those  who  would  not  accept  his 
leadership  and  methods,  and  to  attack  more  or  less  openly  the 
Church's  right  of  influencing  and  moulding  opinion  in  any  matter 
not  within  the  narrow  limits  of  defined  dogma.  Soon  after  ap- 
peared Dollinger's  "  Mediaeval  Fables  of  the  Popes,1'  the  whole 
object  of  which  was  to  show  the  utter  untrustworthiness  of 
Church  history  criticism  in  the  Middle  Ages,  and  to  prove  Papal 
Infallibility  a  mere  invention  of  modern  ultramontanism.  It 
abounded  with  references  and  seemed  a  work  of  immense  erudi- 
tion. 

.  Strange  as  it  may  seem,  an  effort  was  made  to  interest  the 
English-speaking  world  in  the  dispute.  A  small  and  gifted  body 
of  Catholic  .writers,  .first  in.  the  Rambfei\  and  afterwards,  in  the 

Digitized  by  vjUUV  Iv, 


252  Gerhard  Sfoftmutm. 

Some  and  Foreign  Review,  explained  and  defended  Dr.  Dollinger's 
position.  But  a  British  Public,  even — or  perhaps  especially — a 
Catholic  British  Public,  was  not  likely  to  be  deeply  moved  by 
rather  recondite  discussions  of  theological  principles ;  and  it  heard 
with  an  amused  equanimity,  Cardinal  Wiseman's  scathing  condem- 
nation of  the  Review,  for  "the  absence  of  all  reverence  in  its 
treatment  of  persons  and  things  deemed  sacred,  its  grazing  ever 
the  very  edge  of  the  most  perilous  abysses  of  error,  and  its  habi- 
tual preference  of  nn-Catholic  to  Catholic  instincts,  tendencies, 
and  motives.1'*  Our  purpose,  however,  is  not  to  dwell  on  the  English 
aspect  of  the  controversy — nor  is  there  any  need ;  for  it  has  no 
history.  The  brief  of  Pope  Pius  IX.  to  the  Archbishop  of 
Munich,  in  December  1863,  put  an  end  to  the  Review  and  to  the 
movement  it  was  meant  to  foster. 

In  Germany  it  was  quite  otherwise.  There  the  condemnation 
of  the  Munich  School  excited  very  bitter  feelings.  It  became 
utterly  impossible  for  earnest  Catholics  to  preserve  neutrality,  and 
Father  Schneemann  began  his  life  of  authorship  by  a  contribution 
to  the  controversy.  "  I  was  librarian  at  the  time,"  he  writes, 
"  and  as  the  library  shelves  were  not  ready  for  all  the  books,  I  had 
a  number  of  them  taken  to  my  room.  We  had  no  kneeling- 
stools  as  yet ;  so  I  put  some  folios  beside  my  table,  to  serve 
instead.  These  chanced  to  be  volumes  of  d'Argentr£,  whom 
Dollinger  quotes  so  frequently.  Through  curiosity  I  opened  one, 
to  verify  a  reference,  and  was  surprised  to  find  d'Argentr£  main- 
tain quite  the  opposite  of  what  Dollinger  imputed  to  him.  A 
whole  series  of  citations  gave  me  similar  results ;  it  was  to  be  pre- 
sumed that  other  references  were  equally  mendacious ;  and  I  saw 
how  easily  a  man  with  time  and  talent  could  defend  the  Popes 
from  charges  so  dishonestly  brought  against  them."  He  was  him- 
self to  be  the  man.  A  friend,  who  had  undertaken  to  write  some 
articles  for  a  Catholic  Review,  and  became  unable  to  fulfil  his 
promise,  begged  Father  Schneemann  to  take  his  place,  leaving  him 
free  to  write  on  whatever  subject  he  might  choose.  One  subject 
had  already  taken  hold  upon  his  mind ;  there  was  no  need  for 
deliberation ;  and  in  a  short  time  the  articles  were  ready.  But 
then  a  difficulty  arose.  So  great  was  the  strain  upon  men's  minds, 
and  the  longing  not  to  add  to  the  perils  of  disunion,  that  the 
Review  for  which  they  were  first  written,  and  another  to  which 

*  It  may  not  be  out  of  place  to  note  that  the  Home  and  Foreign  Review,  in 
marked  contrast  to  nearly  all  English  Catholic  publications,  was  singularly  fair- 
minded  and  even  sympathetic  in  its  treatment  of  Irish  questions. 

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Gerhard  StbneeMann.  255 

they  were  afterwards  off  ered,  refused  the  articles.  A  good  many 
even  of  Schneemann's  fellow-Jesuits  opposed  their  publication.  It 
was  felt  that  suoh  an  attack  on  Dr.  Dollinger's  honesty  as  an 
historian  must  be  fruitful  in  bitterness.  In  the  summer,  however, 
of  the  following  year  (1864),  they  were  published,  in  book  form, 
by  Herder,  of  Freiburg,  with  the  title,  "  Studies  on  the  Question  of 
Honorius ; "  and  gave  rise  to  even  angrier  feelings  than  had  been 
looked  for.  The  form,  the  matter,  the  animus  of  the  book,  were 
all  attacked ;  but  its  reception  by  Dr.  Dollinger's  friends  proved  its 
need  and  its  value ;  and  Father  Schneemann  had  reason  to  be  fully 
•satisfied  with  its  success,  even  before  it  met  with  high  approval  as 
a  book  of  reference  among  the  Fathers  of  the  Vatican  Council. 

In  the  December  of  1864,  the  Encyclical  "  Quanta  Cura" 
•and  the  Syllabus  were  sent  to  all  the  Bishops  of  the  Church.  All 
the  world  knows  what  a  tempest  they  evoked.  It  has  not  wholly 
•died  away  as  yet ;  on  occasion,  even  politicians  can  "  refurbish  and 
parade  anew  the  rusty  tools "  which  did  service  against  Borne 
then.  Argument,  invective,  insults,  and  threats  were  freely 
lavished  upon  her  by  those  without  the  Church,  and  by  a  small 
party  within  it ;  the  doctrines  she  had  laid  down  were  studiously 
misrepresented  by  enemies,  and  misunderstood  even  by  not  a  few 
whose  allegiance  was  beyond  all  question.  Hence,  naturally,  arose 
the  idea  of  explaining  the  true  meaning  of  the  propositions  of 
the  Syllabus  ;  these  explanations,  it  was  decided,  accompanied  by 
a  defence  of-  the  doctrines  involved,  should  appear,  periodically, 
in  pamphlet  form ;  and  the  whole  series  was  to  bear  the  name  of 
"  Stimmen  aus  Maria  Laach," — "  Voices  from  Maria  Laach."  The 
publication  has  outlived  the  temporary  want  which  it  was  created 
to  meet,  and  is  now  one  of  the  best  known  and  most  highly 
valued  of  Continental  Catholic  Reviews.  At  first  it  was  agreed 
that  Father  Schneemann  should  take,  as  his  share,  the  propositions 
on  Christian  marriage ;  and  the  third  number  of  the  Stimtnen  was 
the  result  of  his  labours — a  pamphlet  of  120  pages  on  the  "  Errors 
•concerning  Marriage."  But  the  sixth,  seventh,  and  eighth 
numbers,  which  were  also  wholly  written  by  him,  must  have  been 
far  more  of  a  labour  of  love  to  him.  "  The  Freedom  of  the 
Church "  "  The  Church's  Jurisdiction,"  "  the  Pope  as  Supreme 
Head  of  the  Church  "  were  subjects  on  which  his  heartfelt  devo- 
tion to  the  Church  and  to  Borne,  could  find  full  expression.  The 
spirit  of  the  man  and  of  all  his  work  is  in  the  words  with  which 
he  closes  the  number  on  the  Primacy:  "Like  Augustine,  the 
•other  Fathers  recognise  this  rock  (Matt  xvi.  18)  in  the  Chair  at 

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26*4  Qerhard  Schneemann. 

Peter  .  .  .  We,  lob,  will  test  upon  it,  in  days  when  everything- 
seems  tottering  to  a  fall ;  we  will  seize  fast  hold  of  it,  that  the 
torrent  may  not  whirl  us  away;  we  will  lean  against  it  in  the 
struggle  with  godlessness  and  unbelief ;  and  when  death  shall  come,, 
after  life's  weary  labour,  we  hope  to  lay  our  head  in  sleep  upon  it, 
filled  with  a  great  trust  in  the  promise  of  our  Lord,  that  hell's, 
gates  shall  not  prevail  against  it."  It  was  difficult  to  write  satisfac- 
torily upon  the  constitution  of  the  Church,  and  quite  impossible  to 
explain  the  twenty- third  proposition  of  the  Syllabus,  without  treating 
the  doctrine  of  Infallibility.  This  Father  Schneemann  did  very 
fully  in  the  tenth  number  of  the  Stimmen — a  double  number,  of 
over  two  hundred  pages,  on  "  The  Teaching  Power  of  the  Church." 
The  existence  of  this  teaching  power,  its  object,  and  its  infallibility 
were  first  discussed ;  then  the  subject  in  whom  it  was  vested  had 
to  be  determined,  and,  after  some  few  pages  upon  General  Councils, 
the  question  of  Papal  Infallibility  was  taken  up.  The  truth  which 
the  Vatican  Council  soon  afterwards  defined  was  clearly  put  for- 
ward and  warmly  defended  by  Father  Schneemann :  Christ's  pro- 
mise, the  belief  and  the  practice  of  the  Early  Church,  the  consent 
of  the  Middle  Ages,  the  history  of  Jansenism,  and  the  formal 
pronouncements  of  later  times  formed  an  unanswerable  argument. 
No  wonder  the  little  treatise  excited  a  host  of  enemies.  Friedrich,. 
Michelis,  Janus,  Dollinger  himself,  attacked  it  bitterly ;  it  was 
denounced  in  public  meetings,  and  quoted  even  in  the  German 
Reichstag  as  a  justification  for  expelling  all  Jesuits  from  the 
empire.  His  other  writings  on  those  and  kindred  subjects  wa 
shall  not  dwell  upon.  It  would  be  wearisome  here  to  even  cata- 
logue them  all.  He  wrote  frequently,  of  course,  for  the  Review% 
which  he  had  helped  to  found ;  he  wrote  many  articles  for  the 
newspapers  during  the  first  days  of  the  Kulturkampf ;  he  pub* 
liflhed  pamphlets  in  defence  of  the  Society,  against  Freemasonry,. 
in  explanation  of  the  Vatican  decrees.  He  found  time  even  to 
contribute  an  interesting  volume  to  a  scholastic  controversy  about 
the  nature  of  Divine  Grace.  But  his  best  work  was  of  a  more 
lasting  character ;  and  we  may  be  allowed  a  brief  reference  to  it. 
He  conceived  the  plan  of  it  and  began  his  preparations  for  it 
about  1866 ;  it  was,  in  fact,  suggested  by  the  heated  discussions. 
in  which  he  was  then  engaged.  In  drawing  out  the  proofs  of 
Papal  Infallibility,  he  had  dwelt  emphatically  on  the  hold  which 
the  doctrine  had  taken  upon  the  mind  of  the  Church  during  the 
last  three  centuries,  and  had  appealed  to  the  testimony  of  national 
and  provincial  synods*    But  there  was  no  collection  of  the  acts  ot 

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Gerhard  Schneemann.  255- 

such  synods.  The  great  collection  of  Hardouin,  the  most  com- 
plete ever  published,  reached  only  to  the  early  part  of  the  seven- 
teenth century:  Father  Schneemann  planned  its  continuation 
down  to  our  own  days.  It  was  an  arduous  enterprise,  for  it  waa 
to  comprise  all  the  local  Councils  approved  by  Borne  in  every 
quarter  of  the  Church.  Thousands  of  letters  had  to  be  written, 
weary  journeys  undertaken,  manuscripts  deciphered  and  collated, 
and  an  immense  mass  of  printed  matter  gone  through,  in  order  to- 
select  whatever  was  required  to  make  the  work  a  perfect  one.  Of 
course  other  Fathers  were  appointed  to  give  him  aid ;  but  still  the 
main  burden  had  to  be  borne  by  himself.  We  need  not  speak  of 
his  success.  Six  large  volumes,  published  in  his  lifetime,  met  with 
universal  praise,  even  from  those  who  heartily  disliked  the  editor ; 
the  seventh  and  last  was  ready  for  publication  when  he  died. 
"  Can  you  send  me  Father  Aymans  P"  he  wrote  from  his  death- 
bed ;  "  the  material  for  the  last  volume  is  ready  now,  and  I  will 
show  him  how  it  is  to  be  arranged.  The  printing  can  go  on,  no 
matter  what  happens  me."  He  did  not  live  to  see  it  printed. 
Ceaseless  labour  had  been  gradually  wearing  him  away.  It  had 
been  hoped  that  a  visit  to  Italy,  in  the  spring  of  1879,  might  give 
him  new  strength,  but  the  hope  was  not  realised.  A  dangerous 
illness  in  1882  left  him  still  weaker,  and  the  summer  of  1884, 
spent  in  Roman  libraries  and  archives,  broke  his  health  down 
utterly.  He  returned  to  Holland — for,  like  all  his  German 
brother- Jesuits,  he  had  to  live  and  labour  in  banishment — only  to 
die.  The  end  came  to  him  in  the  little  hospital  of  Kerkrade,  on 
the  20th  of  last  November,  a  peaceful,  happy  ending  to  a  singu- 
larly happy  life.  He  had  given  himself  unreservedly  to  the 
Church's  cause,  and  we  may  well  trust  that  the  blessing  of  Christ's 
Vicar,  which  was  sent  him  at  life's  close,  was  only  the  harbinger  of 
thehigherblessingswhichtheMasterhad  Himself  inwaitingfor  him. 
It  has  not  been  our  aim  to  sketch  Father  Schneemann's  life  in 
its  entirety.  We  have  said  nothing  of  his  private  virtues,  of  his 
priestly  work  for  souls,  of  his  amiable  social  gifts,  and  of  the  very 
weaknesses  which  endeared  him  to  his  friends.  We  could,  indeed, 
wish  to  say  something  of  his  love  for  the  Society,  a  love  as  sensi- 
tive and  tender  and  as  strong  as  any  of  the  earthly  loves  which 
seize  on  passionate  hearts,  and  shape  their  lives  for  joy  or  wretched- 
ness. But  our  only  object  was  to  show,  in  Father  Schneemann,  a 
devoted,  earnest  defender  of  the  Catholic  Faith,  which  is  that  of 
the  Holy  Roman  Church ;  and  that  he  strove  to  be  this,  and  not. 
in  vain,  the  little  we  have  already  said  will  be  enough  to  show. 

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THE  COTTAGE  GATE. 
By  Ethbl  Tank. 

IN  the  sultry  time  of  mowing, 
When  the  field*  are  full  of  hay, 
Pretty  Janet  bring*  her  eewing 
To  the  gate  at  close  of  day. 

Do  you  wonder  that  she  lingers, 
Often  glances  down  the  lane  P 

Do  you  ask  me  why  her  fingers 
Seem  to  find  their  work  a  strain  P 

Love-dreams  hold  her  in  their  tether ; 

Love  is  often,  as  we  know, 
Idle  in  the  summer  weather, 

Idlest  in  the  sunset  glow. 

Now  the  toil  of  day  is  over ; 

Janet  has  not  long  to  wait 
For  a  shadow  on  the  clover 

And  a  footstep  at  the  gate. 

How  is  this  P    The  slighted  sheeting 

Has  been  taken  up  anew ; 
Very  quiet  is  her  greeting, 

Scarcely  raised  those  eyes  of  blue. 

Now  he  leans  upon  the  railing, 
Tells  her  all  about  the  hay : 

Still  his  pains  seem  unavailing — 
Very  little  will  she  say. 

Is  it  but  capricious  feigning  P 
Learn  a  lesson  from  the  rose, 

Peerless  'mong  her  sisters  reigning, 
Fairest  flower  that  ever  blows ; 

Not  at  once  she  flaunts  her  petals — 
First  a  bud  of  sober  green, 

By-and-by  the  stretching  sepals 
Show  a  dash  of  red  between. 

Breezes  rock  her,  sunbeams  woo  her, 
Wide  and  wider  does  she  start  j 

Opens  all  her  crimson  treasure, 
Yields  the  fragrance  at  her  heart. 

Ah !  the  rosebuds  will  not  render 
All  their  secrets  in  one  day ; 

And  the  maiden,  shy  and  tender, 
Is  as  diffident  as  they. 


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0 


THE  LEAPING  PROCESSION  AT  ECHTERNACH. 

("Lea  saints  damants?) 
NE  of  the  most  curious  relics  of  the  Middle  Ages,  existing  in 


its  primitive  form  to  the  present  day,  is  the  annual  proces- 
sion in  honour  of  St.  Willibrord,  held  at  Echternach,  in  Luxem- 
bourg, and  popularly  known  as  '*  The  Leaping  Procession."  The 
Tillage  was  once  a  famous  place  of  pilgrimage,  and  still  is  crowded 
at  Pentecost  by  sufferers  from  St.  Vitus'  dance,  epilepsy,  and 
similar  disorders,  accompanied  by  their  friends  and  relations.  The 
greater  number  come  from  the  Eifel,  Upper  Moselle,  and  Saar, 
but  a  good  proportion  from  much  greater  distances,  and  they 
generally  arrive  in  bands  of  thirty,  forty,  or  more,  headed  by  their 
parish  priest  and  a  banner-bearer.  Many  march  the  whole  way, 
singing  hymns  and  litanies ;  others  come  by  train,  are  met  at  the 
station  by  the  clergy  of  Echternach,  and  conducted  to  the  places 
prepared  for  their  reception — great  barn-like  rooms,  roughly  fitted 
as  dormitories,  with  beds  of  straw,  and  each  capable  of  containing 
about  sixty  persons,  divided  according  to  sex.  There  they  make 
themselves  as  comfortable  as  may  be,  and  eat  the  provisions  brought 
with  them.  Curious  sight-seers  of  a  better  class  are  few,  and, 
consequently,  have  no  difficulty  in  getting  accommodation  at  the 
inns  or  in  the  houses  of  well-to-do  villagers.  On  Whit  Monday 
strangers  pour  in  all  day  long,  until  the  Echternachers  are  lost  in 
the  crowd.  In  1880,  a  correspondent  of  the  Cologne  Gazette 
reckoned  the  pilgrims  at  nine  thousand,  and  felt  assured  he  had, 
if  anything,  understated  their  number :  this  comprised  those  alone 
who  took  part  in  the  procession,  without  counting  the  large  body 
unable,  through  age  or  infirmity,  to  leap  with  the  others.  Every 
train  that  enters  the  little  station  brings  a  fresh  contingent,  but 
the  greatest  order  prevails,  there  is  no  disturbance  nor  noisy 
mirth,  for  the  priests  have  thoroughly  organised  the  smallest 
details,  and  rough  peasant  lads  obey  them  like  children.  Early  on 
Whit  Tuesday  morning,  each  year,  the  town  is  astir.  By  six 
o'clock  many  are  on  their  way  to  the  church  in  small  parties, 
whose  energetic  chanting  serves  to  rouse  the  lazier  portion  of  the 
community.     At  seven  all  are  assembled  round  a  wooden  pulpit, 

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*258  The  Leaping  Procession  at  Echternach. 

erected  near  a  bridge  over  the  Saar,  that  connects  Belgian  with 
Prussian  territory,  many  avoiding  the  crush  by  hiring  boats  on  the 
river.  A  little  before  eight,  about  fifty  clergymen,  in  albs  and 
stoles,  preceded  by  a  cross-bearer  and  acolytes,  advance  from  the 
town,  singing  the  "  Veni  Creator'9  One  of  their  number  mounts 
the  pulpit  and  preaches  on  the  life  and  virtues  of  St.  Willibrord 
(an  Englishman,  by-the-way),  who,  born  of  rich  and  pious  parents, 
in  the  year  673,  left  home,  country,  and  kindred  to  preach  the 
Gospel  in  Frieeland  and  Denmark.  He  usually  concludes  by 
exhorting  the  people  to  perform  their  devotion  in  a  spirit  of  faith. 
That  over,  a  priest  crosses  the  bridge,  followed  by  all  who  cannot 
bear  the  exertion  of  the  dancing  procession,  singing  the  litany 
«nd  hymn  to  St.  Willibrord.  He  is  invoked  as  "Destroyer  of 
Idols ;  Continual  Preaoher  of  the  Gospel ;  Untiring  Labourer  in 
the  Vineyard  of  the  Lord ;  and  Health  of  the  Sick.' '  The  hymn 
runs  thus : — 

Mit  Mitra  und  Stab  Ton  Petrus  gesaudt 
Zoget  hin  du  auf  Wegen  und  Stegen 
Zum  friesischen  Yolk  und  in's  dinUche  Land 
Begleitet  vom  gbttlichen  Segen. 

'Which  may  be  freely  translated — 

By  Peter  sent  with  pastoral  staff 
And  guided  by  th'  Almighty's  hand. 
Thou  earnest  o'er  rude  and  stony  ways 
To  Friesian  homes  and  Danish  land. 

The  way  is  now  cleared  for  "  lee  saints  dansants"  After  a  few 
preliminary  chords,  the  Echternach  local  band  strikes  up  a  well- 
known  air,  called  "  Adam  he  had  seven  sons/'  and  simultaneously 
the  thousands  of  heads  begin  bobbing  from  side  to  side  in  time  to 
the  music.  The  short  tune  is  played  in  quavers,  almost  chromati- 
cally up  and  down,  the  effect  being  monotonous  in  the  extreme. 
In  a  few  minutes  the  vast  crowd  is  ranged  in  procession,  five  or 
eight  abreast,  holding  handkerchiefs  to  keep  the  ranks  unbroken, 
or,  better  still,  taking  arms,  a  necessary  support  where  so  many 
are  epileptics.  They  advance  but  slowly,  because  of  the  rule  from 
which  the  procession  derives  its  name — that,  with  the  ascending 
melody,  they  should  spring  three  steps  forward,  but  by  the  de- 
scending two  back,  producing  a  curious  kind  of  dancing  movement. 

The  origin  of  this  strange  devotion  is  doubtful.  Though 
Willibrord  was  honoured  as  a  saint  immediately  after  his  death  by 
processions,  Ac,  he  has  no  connection  with  the  leaping,  which  pro- 


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The  Leaping  Proceeston  at  EchternacK  '2&0 

"bably  took  its  rise  and  was.  incorporated  'with  the  olden  devotion 
after  the  plague  of  St  Vitus'  dancto,  that  spread  through  Europfe 
in  1376.  In  the  Ages  of  Faith  any  national  calamity  was  looked 
on  as  a  punishment  from  heaven,  and  the  people,  like  the  Nini- 
vites,  humbled  themselves  before  God,  seeking  by  prayer  and  f asfc- 
ing  to  avert  His  chastisement,  and  atone  for  the  sins  that  drew  it 
down.  Thus  sufferers  from  the  above  epidemic  and  their  friends 
hoped  to  be  cured  or  spared  by  imposing  on  themselves  as  a  penance, 
the  convulsive  movements  and  contortions  accompanying  the 
dreaded  illness,  and  a  confraternity  (suppressed  later  on)  was 
founded,  that  practised  this  mortification. 

Each  body  of  pilgrims  brings  its  own  band,  consisting  usually 
of  an  old  violin,  a  clarionet,  and  a  dram,  in  some  instances  of  ear- 
piercing  fifes,  and  here  and  there  a  concertina !  They  all  play  in 
different  keys,  and  as  fast  as  possible ;  in  most  positions,  two  or 
three  can  be  heard  at  the  same  time,  with  dreadful  effect.  Itinerant 
musicians,  attracted  by  the  fame  of  the  procession,  are  hired  by 
those  who  come  unprovided,  for  without  music  of  some  kind  no 
system  of  nerves  and  muscles  could  hold  out.  The  Echternachers 
head  the  procession,  preceded  by  their  band  and  banner.  In  their 
van  march,  or  rather  dance,  a  number  of  lads  and  lasses,  sixteen 
years  of  age  and  under,  who  leap  and  jump  not  for  themselves  but 
for  others,  being  hired  by  pilgrims  who  are  unable  themselves  to 
take  part  in  such  vigorous  exertions.  Early  in  the  morning  they 
accost  strangers  asking  in  the  native  patois : 

"  Wolt  Ihr  mich  dangen  fur  zu  sprangen  f  "  '  Will  you  hire  me 
to  jump  for  you  P  "  and  a  few  sous  is  the  fee  for  their  services.  The 
more  prudent  among,  the  pilgrims  are  watchful  to  see  the  conditions 
carried  out,  and  postpone  payment  till  the  end  of  the  procession, 
or  till  their  deputies  dance  from  a  certain  point  to  some  other  agreed 
on.  In  some  instances  one  lad  is  hired  by  three  or  more  strangers, 
in  which  case  he  springs  and  bounds  with  such  energy  as  on  divi- 
sion would  leave  a  fair  share  for  each,  but  no  one  can  be  sure  of 
having  a  substitute  entirely  to  himself. 

From  the  bridge  i&iQcort&ge  makes  its  toilsome  progress  through 
the  village  street,  up  a  steep  hill  crowned  by  an  old  church,  which 
is  reached  by  a  double  flight  of  sixty- two  steps.  On  the  people  go, 
up  three  steps  and  down  two,  the  whole  way,  through  the  right 
aisle  of  the  church,  round  the  altar  with  its  quaint  reliquaries  con- 
taining the  bones  of  St  Willibrord,  down  the  left  aisle,  through  the 
churchyard.  Thrice  round  a  great  cross  erected  there,  and  then 
the  exhausted  crowd  scatter,  for  the  leaping  procession  is  over. 

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260  The  Prisoned  Sang. 

They  disperse  as  quietly  as  possible,  and  after  refreshment  and 
repose  make  their  way  home  as  they  came,  so  that  by  night-fall 
Echternach  has  settled  down  into  its  usual  state  of  sleepy  placidity. 

Many  of  the  pilgrims  go  to  Echternach  in  fulfilment  of  a  vow* 
others  in  thanksgiving  for  a  spiritual  or  temporal  blessing,  and  a 
large  number  to  obtain  the  cure  of  themselves  or  some  relation 
from  epilepsy  or  any  kindred  disorder.  The  devotion  is  very 
popular  amongst  the  Luxembourg  peasants,  and  it  is  common  for 
them  to  promise  to  take  part  in  the  next  procession  if  a  sick  child 
recovers  or  a  drunken  husband  reforms,  and  should  the  child  die* 
or  the  man  continue  to  drink,  they  hold  that  the  promise  is  not  bind- 
ing, but  the  priests  teach  that  such  vows  ought  to  be  unconditional, 
as  befits  the  relation  of  man  to  the  Creator.  All  the  pilgrims  are 
expected  to  confess  and  communicate  that  they  may  observe  more 
solemnity  in  an  exercise  which  might  without  care  degenerate  into 
a  frolic,  and  have  to  be  suppressed. 

Traces  of  a  similar  custom  may  be  found  in  different  German 
towns,  notably  in  Cologne,  where  every  year  a  dozen  lads  and  lasses, 
under  the  name  of  die  heilige  Madchen  und  Knechte,  dance  in  the 
Carnival  procession. 

C.  O'C.  E. 


THE  PRISONED  SONG. 

A  SONG  lay  still,  and  prisoned  in  a  heart, 
And  years  passed  on,  and  never  knew  its  strain ; 
And  summer  glow  and  gladness  shook  its  chain 
Yet  moved  it  not.    And  Love  with  keen  bright  dart 
Came  laughing  nigh,  and  aimed  with  surest  art 
To  wake  the  silent  lay — yet  still  in  vain, 
And  love  spread  out  his  sunny  wings  again 
And  sailed  away,  all  heedless  of  that  heart. 

Then  Sorrow  came,  with  drooping  downcast  mien, 
And  softly  touched  the  captive  melody, 
And  lo !  it  stirred — it  leaped  to  sound;  a  queen 
Out  to  the  world  in  passioned  throbs  did  flee, 
And  spirits  paused,  and  listened  tranced,  I  ween, 
To  that  sweet  song  that  Sorrow  had  set  free ! 

Cassis  &f •  O'Hara. 


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UNPUBLISHED  POEMS  OF  THE  "CERTAIN 
PROFESSOR." 

ON  the  twenty-fourth  day  of  March,  1885,  Father  Joseph 
Farrell  died.  His  first  anniversary  escaped  the  notice  of 
one  who  had  a  right  to  remember  it.  To  make  this  omission  less 
likely  in  future  years,  that  ungrateful  friend  has  set  down  the  date 
in  his  copy  of  "  The  Birthday  Book  of  Our  Dead,"  which  is 
already  a  standard  classic  wherever  there  is  question  of  com- 
memorating departed  friends.  In  making  this  entry  he  detected 
another  of  the  hidden  felicities  of  arrangement  in  that  delightful 
compilation.  On  the  same  day  Longfellow  died,  three  years 
before  Father  Farrell;  and  accordingly  the  prose  and  verse 
selected  for  that  day  are  from  the  American  poet  and  the  Irish 
priest.  Longfellow's  lines  are  taken  from  one  of  his  less  familiar 
passages : — 

Upon  a  sea  more  vast  and  dark 
The  spirits  of  the  dead  embark, 
All  voyaging  to  unknown  coasts ; 
We  wave  our  farewells  from  the  shore, 
And  they  depart  and  come  no  more, 
Or  come  as  phantoms  and  as  ghosts. 
Above  the  darksome  sea  of  death 
Looms  the  great  life  that  is  to  be — 
A  land  of  cloud  and  mystery ; 
A  dim  mirage  with  shapes  of  men 
Long  dead  and  passed  beyond  our  ken. 
Awestruck  we  gaze  and  hold  our  breath 
Till  the  fair  pageant  vanisheth, 
Leaving  us  in  perplexity, 
And  doubtful  whether  it  has  been 
A  vision  of  the  world  unseen, 
Or  a  bright  image  of  our  own 
Against  the  sky  in  vapours  thrown. 

The  parallel  passage  from  "  The  Lectures  of  a  Certain  Pro- 
fessor "  is  as  follows : — 

When  that  sorrow,  the  commonest  of  all  that  comes  through  others,  the 

tforrow  that  comes  from  the  death  of  those  we  love,  strikes  people  for  the  first 

time,  they  are  apt  to  think,  and  even  to  say,  that  it  were  better  to  love  no  one 

than  love  those  who  die.     But  oh,  how  false  t    How  ungrateful  to  forget  the 

Vol.  xiv.  No.  155.  20     ^W 

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262  Unpublished  Poems  of  the  "  Certain  Professor." 

former  joys  that  were  possible  only  to  a  heart  capable  of  mfesing  them  so 
bitterly.  The  friend  is  dead ;  but  not  dead,  for  it  cannot  die,  is  the  memory  of 
the  days  that  were  hallowed  by  affection,  and  that  give  earnest  of  a  future 
where  the  parted  streams  shall  flow  together  again  and  for  ever. 

That  devoted  friend  of  the  brilliant  curate  of  Monasterevan, 
who  reminded  us  of  his  first  anniversary,  entrusted  us  at  the  same 
time  with  a  small  book  in  which  Father  Farrell  wrote,  in  pencil, 
bat  with  his  usual  care  and  completeness,  a  few  of  his  poems. 
There  is  no  preface  or  title  or  remark,  but  on  the  third  page  the 
date  "August,  1872,"  follows  the  heading  of  the  first  poem,  "By 
the  Seaside/'  August,  1872 — just  one  year  before  the  com- 
mencement of  The  Irish  Monthly,  which  can  boast  that,  were  it 
not  for  its  existence  and  its  importunity,  Father  Farrell  would 
have  published  little  prose,  and  probably  no  poetry. 

"  By  the  Seaside  "  appears,  with  hardly  three  words  changed, 
at  page  290  of  our  first  volume  (November,  1873),  but  it  is  signed, 
not  with  the  initials,  but  with  the  last  letters  of  the  poet's  name, 
"H.L." 

In  the  little  manuscript  book  follows  an  unpublished  piece, 
which  is  headed  with  the  numeral  2  as  a  continuation  of  the  preced- 
ing, and  followed  by  a  few  asterisks  to  mark  its  incompleteness. 

Green  spreads  of  wave,  as  if  vast  emerald  fields 
Were  moved  by  mimic  earthquakes,  and  a  smile, 
A  thousand  smiles  hurst  upward  to  the  sky. 
Beyond  the  foam's  white  fringe  a  reach  of  sand, 
And  from  the  sand,  in  many  a  stair  of  streets, 
Up  climbs  the  town. 

To  me  a  vision  came — 
To  me  a  vision,  but  to  those  who  dwell 
By  rock-bound  seas  no  vision. 

Wintry  waves 
Held  furious  revel,  and,  like  tyrant  kings 
Who  wake  the  rage  of  peoples,  lashed  the  sea 
To  moaning,  then  to  madness,  and  the  rage 
That  wreaks  blind  vengeance,  not  upon  the  thing 
That  did  the  wrong,  but  on  the  blameless  thing 
That  finds  itself,  though  blameless,  in  the  place 
Where  wrong  was  done  and  suffers  for  the  wrong. 
And  so  the  ship  that  lay  beyond  the  bar, 
Bearing  her  freight  of  hearts  and  all  their  hopes, 
Was  sailing  her  last  voyage  to  her  doom. 
As  sunk  the  sun,  the  clouds  came  sailing  up 
And  veiled  the  stars  that  hang  in  happier  hours 
Like  gems  set  in  the  dusky  crown  of  night 
The  sun  sets  daily,  daily  open  graves; 


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Unpublished  Poem  of  the  "  Certain  Prqfeuor,"  268 

Death  comes  to  tilt—yet  would  I  look  my  last 
Upon  the  world  from  some  less  desolate  point 
Than  is  the  wave-swept  deck  of  a  doom'd  ship. 

And  there  the  poet  broke  off  his  seaside  reverie  and  never 
returned  to  it  again,  nor  did  he  ever  send  the  fragment  to  stop  the 
importunities  of  an  editor  who  often  besought  him  for  "anything/* 
either  prose  or  verse. 

The  next  piece  has  no  title  here,  but  begins  with  the  musical 
alliteration : — 

The  wash  of  the  waves  on  the  shingle, 
The  fringe  of  the  foam  on  the  sand,  &o. 

It  will  be  found  at  page  455  of  our  second  volume  (1874), 
under  the  name  "  What  the  Sea  Said,"  with  the  addition  of  a  final 
stanza,  which  seems  not  to  add  to  the  effectiveness  of  the  poem, 
especially  as  it  ends  with  the  same  word  as  the  preceding  stanza. 
I  think  Father  Farrell  objected  to  this  addition  afterwards.  This 
poem  shows  that  his  fondness  for  blank  verse  was  not  due  to  any 
want  of  skill  in  managing  the  most  musical  metres. 

Next  comes,  "  My  Books,"  which  is  called  "  What  My  Books 
Do,"  at  page  444  of  our  third  volume ;  and  it  is  followed  in  the 
manuscript  book  by  this  unpublished  stanza : — 

Visions  of  bright  impossible  things, 

Fairy  dreams  that  fleet, 
A  music  of  hope  in  the  heart  that  sings 

Low,  soft,  and  sweet — 

While  on  the  opposite  page  the  poet  seems  to  answer  himself  in 
his  favourite  blank  verse : — 

The  dreams  are  idle  dreams,  the  visions  fade, 
And  hope's  sweet  music  onds  in  heart-drawn  sighs. 

The  fine  lines  on  "  Fame  "  are  here,  and  the  song  "  Remem- 
brance and  Regret,"  of  which  the  former  will  be  found  at  page  253 
of  the  third  volume  of  this  Magazine,  and  the  latter  at  page  329. 
And  then,  before  the  manuscript  book  is  nearly  half  filled,  these 
lines  come  last  of  all,  which  bear  no  name  and  which  have  not 
been  printed  before : — 

Go,  carve  thy  name  upon  the  yielding  bark 

Of  some  fair  tree,  'neath  which  thy  childhood  played. 

Grave  deep  the  letters  that  there  may  remain 

A  record  of  thyself  for  times  to  come ; 

Saying  mayhap,  while  thy  unskilful  hand 

Smoothes  down  the  roughened  edges — "  when  the  yean 


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264  Unpublished  Poems  of  the  "  Certain  Professor." 

Have  oome  and  gone,  when  I  am  far  away 
Or  lying  i'  the  mould,  some  Toiee  may  read, 
And  though  my  memory  perish  from  the  earth, 
My  name  at  least  will  sound  on  living  lips." 

And  after  many  a  summer,  when  the  heard 
Of  manhood  bristles  on  thy  bronzed  cheek, 
Come  hack  to  read,  and  lo  I  the  bark  overlapped 
Has  changed  the  letters  into  shapeless  scars, 
Without  a  voice  to  tell  what  once  they  meant 

Go,  make  thyself  a  friend  in  sunny  youth 
And  bind  thy  soul  to  his  by  every  link 
That  generous  boyhood  hath  the  skill  to  forge, 
Make  him  the  sharer  of  thy  inmost  thoughts, 
Make  him  the  listener  to  thy  brightest  dreams. 

And  after  many  summers  when  life's  sun 
Hath  three  parts  journeyed  to  life's  fateful  West, 
When  boyhood's  impulse  wakens  but  a  blush, 
Go  seek  thy  friend. 

A  busy,  careworn  man, 
He'll  shake  thy  hand  and  strive  to  bring  thy  name 
Up  from  the  world  of  long  forgotten  things ; 
And  when  his  memory  sheds  a  frosty  gleam 
Upon  the  past  you  shared  together  boys — 
Not  finding  thee  a  borrower,  he  will  smile 
And  mutter  hollow  forms,  and  seek  to  give 
Mock  pathos  to  the  talk  about  old  times, 
But  still  your  heart  unsatisfied  will  aek 
u  Where  is  my  friend  P  "  and  echo  answers  "  where  ?  " 

One  of  the  most  pathetic  poems  in  the  language,  and  also  one 
of  the  most  recent,  begins  with  the  apostrophe,  "0  year-dead 
Love  I"  A  year  is  a  long  time  for  grief,  and  even  for  keen  regret. 
Few  hearts,  except  mothers'  hearts,  are  expected  to  be  faithful  to 
anniversaries.  Besides  the  alliteration  there  is  this  special  fitness 
in  our  phrase,  "  Month's  Mind."  A  year  would  be  too  long  a 
space  to  bear  the  departed  thus  in  mind.  As  we  began  by  confess- 
ing, we  have  exemplified  this  tendency  of  man's  selfish  nature  by  the 
tardiness  of  this  commemoration  of  the  first  anniversary  of  Father 
Joseph  FarrelTs  death.     May  he  rest  in  peace ! 


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(    266    ) 


AN    ARCAOHON    COMEDY. 
By  Mrs.  Frank  Pbntbill. 

rE  pine  trees  were  covered  with  yellow  blossoms;  on  the 
ground  a  yellow  powder ;  in  the  air  a  yellow  mist ;  and 
overhead  a  yellow  sun,  bright  and  pitiless.  It  was  enough  to 
-drive  any  one  mad ;  so  at  least  thought  Miss  M'Witley,  as  she 
wandered  to  and  fro,  or  stopped  at  intervals  to  moan  out  her 
piteous  "  oh,  dears." 

Miss  M'Witley  had  started  after  breakfast  to  take,  she  thought, 
a  quiet  stroll ;  but  she  had  soon  lost  her  way  among  the  pines, 
straying  further  and  further  from  Arcachon,  till  now  she  stood  in 
the  very  heart  of  the  forest.  Her  blue  spectacles  were  stained 
with  tears,  her  curls  hung  limp,  her  round  hat  was  all  on  one  side, 
her  feet  were  bruised  and  swollen ;  she  looked  the  very  type  of 
the  British  spinster  in  distress;  but,  alas!  there  was  no  one  to 
see,  or,  at  least,  to  pity  her,  and  the  green  caterpillars  crawled  on 
unheeding,  while,  overhead,  a  thrush  poured  forth  his  exultant 
song  and  seemed  to  mock  her  misery.  But  what  was  that  curling 
^among  the  trees  P  Was  it  only  the  summer  mist  P  or  could  it  be 
smoke P  Yes:  smoke  undoubtedly,  and  there,  too,  were  the  white 
walls  of  a  cottage.  At  the  sight  Miss  M'Witley  felt  her  courage 
return,  and,  struggling  through  the  sand,  soon  arrived  at  the  open 
door.  The  room  semed  empty.  "  Some  one  is  sure  to  come ;  I'll 
wait,"  thought  she,  sinking  into  a  chair ;  and  then  she  began  to 
wonder  what  she  would  say ;  for  "French  of  Paris"— or,  indeed, 
any  French — "  was  to  her  unknown." 

While  she  sat  wondering,  something  darkened  the  door,  and 
she  looked  up,  expecting  to  see  a  r&inier  or  his  wife ;  but,  oh, 
horror !  on  the  threshold  stood  a  man  in  a  black  coat,  and  with  a 
moustache  twenty  times  blacker. 

"A  robber !  a  brigand  I "  flashed  through  Miss  M'Witley*  s  timid 
mind,  and  then  she  cried  aloud,  "  Monsieur !  Monsieur ! " 

"  Anatole,"  said  the  stranger,  with  a  bow  and  a  smile. 

"They're  always  civil  when  they  mean  to  murder  you,"  thought 
poor  Miss  M'Witley,  and,  in  her  despair,  she  poured  forth  the  tale 
of  her  woes  in  English,  while  Monsieur  Anatole  went  on  bowing 
and  smiling  in  a  manner  decidedly  French.  At  last  she  pointed 
to  her  swollen  feet. 

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266  An  Arcachvn  Comedy. 

"  How  Madame  must  suffer !  I  will  cat  the  boot  lace/'  said 
the  Frenchman,  rushing  to  a  cupboard  and  seizing  a  knife. 

i€  Mercy !  Mercy !"  cried  Miss  M'Witley,  who  made  sure  her 
last  hour  was  come. 

"  Permit  me,"  said  Mr.  Anatole,  with  a  flourish  of  the  knife. 

"  Spare  me  I  spare  me !"  cried  Miss  M*  Witley,  throwing  her- 
self at  his  feet.  "  Here  is  my  purse,  take  it — and  my  watch" — 
snatching  it  from  her  waist. 

"  Sapristie,"  said  the  Frenchman,  pushing  her  hand  away,  and 
down  fell  the  purse,  and  its  glittering  contents  rolled  out  on  the 
floor.  Mr.  Anatole  knelt  to  pick  them  up.  "  Poor  thing,  I  wonder 
if  she's  mad,"  thought  he,  as  he  replaced  half  a  dozen  Napoleons. 

"The  sight  of  the  money  has  softened  him,"  thought  she, 
stealing  a  timid  glance. 

"  What  pretty  eyes  these  English  have,"  thought  he,  picking 
up  the  blue  spectacles. 

"  He  wouldn't  look  so  wicked  only  for  that  moustache/'  thought 
she,  growing  bolder. 

"  Upon  my  word,  she's  rather  nice ;  but  what  a  dress ! "  thought 
he,  restoring  the  last  franc  to  its  place  in  the  purse. 

"I  believe  he's  smiling,"  thought  she,  venturing  on  another 
look ;  and  then,  as  they  still  knelt,  their  eyes  met,  and  the  absur- 
dity of  the  situation  striking  them  both,  they  burst  into  a  hearty 
laugh. 

"  Permit  me,"  again  said  Mr.  Anatole,  and,  this  time,  Miss 
M'Witley  allowed  him  to  lead  her  to  a  seat  by  the  fire.  A  large 
pot  was  simmering  among  the  embers,  and,  lifting  the  cover,  the 
Frenchman  looked  in. 

"  It's  not  bad,"  said  he,  inhaling  the  savoury  smell,  and,  for 
the  first  time,  Miss  M'Witley  remembered  that  she  was  very 
hungry.  Her  face  must  have  told  it ;  for,  in  a  moment,  he  had 
brought  platesand  spoons,  and,  ladling  out  the  soup,  invitedherto  eat. 

How  often  they  passed  each  other  the  salt,  how  often  he  bowed, 
how  often  she  smiled,  nobody  knows ;  but  both  declare  to  this  day 
that  a  more  delicious  soup  was  never  eaten.  In  the  pauses  of  the 
meal,  Monsieur  Anatole  told  his  simple  tale.  He  was  a  clerk  at 
Bordeaux ;  his  foster-brother,  Pierre,  who  lived  in  the  cottage  and 
had  charge  of  the  telegraph  wires,  had  gone  to  be  married ;  and  he,  - 
Anatole,  had  taken  his  place  for  the  day ;  hence  the  pleasure  of  ~ 
Madame's  acquaintance — and  so  on  and  so  on — to  all  of  which 
Miss  M'Witley  said  "  oui,"  and  nodded  energetically,  though  she 
understood  not  a  word. 

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An  -Arcachon  Comedy.  267 

*  Suddenly  Monsieur  Atmtole  etruok  his  forehead  wifli  his  Open 
hand.  "  Am  I  not  bfite,"  cried  he,  and  rushed  out  of  the  froom. 
Presently  he  returned,  saying  something  about  telegraph  and 
Aroaohon,  and 'after  that  he  ran  every  five  minutes  to  the  door 
and  lo6ked  up  and  down  the  road,  till,  at  last,  was  heard  the 
tinkling  of  bells,  and,  in  a  cloud  of  dust,  appeared  Jacques,  the 
favourite  fly-driver  of  Arcachon.  Just  as  Miss  M'Witley  had 
been  helped  into  the  carriage,  for  which  the  Frenchman  had  tele- 
graphed, the  bridal  pair  were  seen  coming,  arm-in-arm,  over  the 
sand.  The  foster-brothers  greeted  each  other  warmly,  and  then 
Monsieur  Anatole  began  a  long  explanation :  there  was  no  train 
nearer  than  Arcachon ;  he  wanted,  if  possible,  to  reach  Bordeaux 
that  night ;  would  Madame  think  it  a  liberty  if  he  asked  for  a 
place  in  her  carriage  P  And,  as  Miss  M'Witley  kept  to  her  rule  of 
saying  "oui "  to  everything,  they  were  at  last  seated  side-by-side, 

■and  driving  back  through  the  wood. 

*  *  * 

Soon  after  this  the  gossips  of  Arcachon  noticed  a  great  change 
in  Miss  M'Witley *8  appearance :  the  round  hat  and  the  spectacles 
were  cast  aside ;  the  curls,  too,  disappeared ;  so  that  now  one  could 
see  that  in  her  cheeks  still  bloomed  pretty  roses,  though  they  were, 
perhaps,  a  trifle  iaded.  It  was  also  remarked  that  Monsieur 
Anatole's  business  brought  him  very  often  to  Arcachon ;  that  he 
was  always  sauntering  in  front  of  Desaix's  Hotel,  where  Miss 
M'Witley  lived ;  and  that  whenever  she  and  Mademoiselle  Desaix 
took  a  walk,  he  always  happened  to  be  going  the  same  way.  One 
day  Mr.  Desaix,  his  wife,  and  daughter  were  sitting  in  the  bureau 
of  the  hotel,  and  Mr.  Anatole  was,  as  usual,  loitering  outside  with 
the  inevitable  cigar. 

"  There  he  is  again,"  said  the  landlord,  pettishly,  and  then, 
turning  to  his  daughter  :  "  Ah,  9a,  Louise,  Anatole  is  a  charming 
boy,  charming ;  but  two  thousand  francs  a  year  won't  suit  me  for 
a  son-in-law.? 

Upon  hearing  this,  the  pretty  Louise  tossed  her  head,  and 
whispered  something  to  her  father,  which  made  him  laugh  till  he 
almost  choked.  Then  Monsieur  told  the  secret  to  Madame,  and 
they  all  three  laughed  more  heartily  than  before;  but  Miss 
M'Witley  happening  to  pass  through  the  hall,  they  suddenly 
.  stopped,  and  Madame  said  "bon  jour"  with  the  utmost  demureness. 

Three  weeks  later  Miss  M'Witley  and  Louise  went  off  myste- 
riously to  Bordeaux,  and,  in  a  short  time,  Louise  returned  alone, 
wearing  at  her  neck  a  huge  locket,  in  which  were  two  portraits— 

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268  The  JPtwidence  of  God. 

the  one  a  pleasant-looking  English  lady ;  the  other,  a  young 

with  a  very  black  moustache. 

♦  •  # 

Every  year,  when  the  pines  are  in  blossom, 'Monsieur  and 
Madame  Anatole  Lamotte  spend  a  week  at  the  Hotel  Desaix,  and 
on  the  morning  after  their  arrival,  Jacques  and  Jacques's  carriage 
are  at  the  gate,  ready  to  convey  them  to  the  cottage  in  the  wood ; 
there  they  receive  a  joyous  welcome  from  the  foster-brother  and 
his  wife,  and  there  they  spend  the  day,  eating  soup  and  making 
merry ;  and  when  the  moon  has  risen  they  drive  back  to  Aroaohon» 
under  the  whispering  pines.  They  do  not  talk  much  on  the  way  ; 
for  Monsieur  Anatole  has  not  yet  been  able  to  learn  English,  and 
Madame's  French  still  leaves  much  to  be  desired,  but  Jacques 
declares  that  in  all  Bordeaux  there  is  not  a  happier  pair  than 
Monsieur  Anatole  and  his  English  wife. 


THE  PROVIDENCE  OF  GOD. 

From  the  Italian  of  FUicaja.* 

A  S  when  a  mother,  in  her  children  blest, 
•**    Sees  all  with  love,  which  glows  as  each  she  sees, 
One  presses  to  her  cheek,  one  to  her  breast, 
One  places  by  her  feet,  one  on  her  knees ; 
By  each  one's  sigh  or  look  knows  each  request, 
And  seeks  each  many,  varying  wish  to  please. 
Fats,  by  a  word  or  glance,  each  care  to  rest, 
And  feels,  in  smile  and  frown,  her  love  increase : 
E'en  so,  our  God,  all  infinite,  most  high, 
Watches,  in  grief  consoles,  for  each  one  lives, 
Grants  all  our  wills,  and  lists  each  suppliant  cry, 
But  if,  denying  aught,  He  sometimes  grieves, 
It  is  because  He  loves  our  love  to  try, 
Or  feigns  denial,  and,  denying,  gives. 

W.H.  E. 


*  The  original  of  this  beautiful  sonnet  has  been  already  printed  in  our  Meganim 
voL  5,  232)  with  a  translation  by  '<  W.  W.M— namely,  the  late  Mr.  William  Wood- 
lock,  father  of  our  present  Metropolitan  Magistrate  and  brother  to  the  Bishop  of 
Ardagh  and  Clonmacnoise. — Ed.  /.  M. 


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THE  TJESULTNES  OF  TENOS. 

.  By  Hannah  Lynch. 

TWENTY-THREE  years  ago  there  started  from  France  four 
TJrsuline  nuns  with  the  intention  of  founding  a  convent  of 
their  prder  in  the  island  of  Tenos,  in  the  Greek  Archipelago.  The 
first  idea  had  been  to  found  this  establishment  in  Syra,  the  chief 
♦commercial  town  of  the  Cyelades  ;  but  insuperable  difficulties 
turned  their  hopes  to  Tenos,  known  to  the  ancient  Greeks  as  the 
island  of  Serpents.  Nothing  could  be  more  picturesque  and 
lovely  than  the  island,  nothing  less  civilised.  These  four  ladies 
of  high  courage  and  energy,  left  the  shores  of  the  most  civilised 
-country  in  the  world  with  the  small  sum  of  six  hundred  francs, 
upon  which  they  resolved  to  start  a  school  of  Catholic  education 
and  charity  in  an  island  which  had  ceased  to  be  universally 
Catholic  from  the  time  of  Venetian  rule.  Having  gone  over  the 
.ground  and  realised  (only  dimly)  their  enormous  difficulties,  the 
complete  sacrifice  they  were  compelled  to  make  of  all  bodily 
-comforts,  and  the  unendurable  conditions  of  existence  they  bravely 
iaced,  I  can  only  compare  their  courage  with  that  which  formed 
the  annals  of  the  earliest  stages  of  Christianity.  Becalmed  upon 
4  whimsical  sea,  they  arrived  at  Tenos  a  little  before  eight  in  the 
•evening.  Tenos  was  the  spot  selected,  or  rather  its  village,  Lutra, 
because  the  bishop  had  consented  to  the  erection  of  a  convent  in 
iis  diocese.  To  readers  accustomed  to  the  resources  of  civilised 
travelling  the  hour  of  arrival  is  a  detail  of  no  consequence.  Not 
•so  even  to-day  in  Tenos.  Judge,  then,  what  it  must  have  been 
twenty-three  years  ago  !  Four  delicately  nurtured  women  had  to 
iace  a  dark,  rocky  road,  more  of  the  nature  of  a  sheer  precipice 
than  a  road,  late  at  night,  upon  mules.  I  made  the  same  journey 
•at  midday  and  felt  more  dead  than  alive  after  it.  There  is 
positively  not  a  vestige  of  roadway  up  the  whole  steep  mountain 
pass,  nothing  but  large  rocks  and  broken  marbles,  though  the 
traveller  in  search  of  the  picturesque  is  amply  repaid  the  dis- 
comfort of  the  ride.  But,  compared  with  the  village  of  Lutra, 
which  was  the  destination  of  the  nuns,  this  wild  and  dangerous 
looking  path  is  a  kind  of  preliminary  paradise.  No  word-painting 
of  the  most  realistic  school  could  do  justice  to  the  horror  of  Lutra 

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270  The  Ursujme*  ofTeno*. 

to-day — and  what  most  it  have  been  there  before  the  refining- 
influence  of  those  nuns  touched  it  P  This  dirty  stone-built  and 
tumble-down  Tillage  the  four  nuns  entered  at  eight  o'clock,  when 
darkness  covered  its  ugliness,  but  greatly  increased  its  dangers. 
The  first  entrance  winds  under  an  intricate  line  of  stone  arches, 
the  pavement  uneven;  the  mingling  of  odours  unimaginable. 
Through  this  unearthly  awfulness  they  bravely  struggled  and 
reached  their  destination  at  last.  A  Father  from  the  neighbouring 
community  had  heard  of  their  expected  arrival,  and  was  already 
superintending  the  rough  and  hurried  details  of  their  reception. 
I  saw  the  house  which  stands  just  as  it  was  when  the  Ursuline 
nuns  first  made  it  their  residence.  A  mud  cabin  containing  two 
rooms :  kitchen  and  dining-room,  bed-room  and  chapel.  The  roof 
is  made  of  stones  thrown  loosely  over  wooden  beams  placed  far 
apart,  the  two  rooms  separated  by  a  whitewashed  arch  instead  of  a 
door.  There  are  no  windows;  but  spaces  are  cut  in  the  walla 
which  served  to  let  in  the  light  and  air,  and  at  night  were  covered 
by  shutters.  Hail,  rain,  or  snow,  it  was  necessary  to  keep  these 
spaces  open  by  day,  in  order  to  see,  and  it  is  not  surprising  that 
one  of  the  nuns  was  soon  prostrated  by  a  dangerous  fever.  The 
beds  were  mattresses  stuffed  with  something  remarkably  like 
potatoes,  and  laid  on  the  mud  floor  at  night,  upon  which  the  nuns 
slept  a  short,  ascetic  sleep. 

Here  they  remained  for  some  time,  going  among  the  villagers, 
and  soliciting  that  the  poor  would  send  their  children  to  be  taught. 
This  the  poor  did,  and  gradually  the  children  began  to  fill  the 
kitchen  of  the  mud  cabin.  If  it  rained  during  class,  umbrellas 
had  to  be  put  up  as  a  protection  under  a  nominal  roof,  just  as  the 
nuns  had  to  sleep  under  umbrellas  in  wet  weather.  Indeed,  some- 
times it  rained  so  hard  that  they  were  obliged  to  take  up  their 
mattresses  at  night,  and  seek  a  more  sheltered  spot  elsewhere. 
At  last  the  number  of  their  charity  pupils  increased ;  and  the 
bishop,  as  poor  as  they  were  almost,  offered  them  the  only  asylum 
in  his  power,  his  own  paternal  home,  also  a  mud  cabin ;  but  instead 
of  two  miserable  rooms  it  contained  four.  This  was  an  immense 
improvement,  and  the  nuns  felt  like  exchanging  a  cottage  for  a 
palace.  But  here  the  protection  of  umbrellas  was  still  necessary, 
as  the  roof  was  also  made  of  loosely  set  stones  and  beams.  In 
time  other  nuns  joined  them  from  France,  until  they  formed  a 
community  of  eleven,  with  eighty  village  school  children  and  one 
bbarder.  It  grew  daily  more  and  more  necessary  that  something 
Bhould  be  done  to  raise  money  to  build  a  convent.    Their  oouehefe 

Digitized  by  VjUUV  I  v. 


The  UksnKnet  of  Turn.  pU 

had  been  slowly  raised  from  a  mind  floor  to  tables,  upon  which 
they  slept  the  sleep  of  Trappists ;  but  a  proper  establishment  waa 
now  indispensable  to  the  work  they  bad  laid  themselves  out  to  do. 
With  this  object,  two  nuns  set  out  on  a  supplicating  mission  round 
the  Levant.  They  were  less  successful  than  they  had  perhaps . 
anticipated,  for  they  returned  after  their  ardous  task  only  enriched 
by  eight  thousand  francs.  With  this  sum  they  were  enabled  to 
build  a  small  portion  of  the  present  establishment ;  but  building 
in  a  Greek  island  is  slow  and  costly  work.  Each  stone  has  to  be 
carried  up  the  long  mountain  pass  from  the  quarries ;  the  way  is. 
difficult,  the  men  unaccustomed  to  prompt  work.     • 

However,  in  due  time  the  nuns  were  enabled  to  leave  the 
bishop's  homely  roof,  where  their  chapel  was  a  tiny  closet  separated 
from  the  class  and  dining-room  by  a  curtain,  and  the  beds  the 
tables  used  during  the  day,  with  umbrellas  for  a  roof. 

Two  nuns  later  made  the  tour  of  France  in  search  of  funds, 
and  were  rewarded  for  their  unpleasant  undertaking  by  the  sum 
of  twenty-five  thousand  francs*  which  added  something  more  to 
the  building  already  commenced,  and  smaller  sums,  together  with 
pupils,  came  afterwards.  Now  they  have  between  fifty  and  sixty 
pupils  who  are  paid  for,  and  almost  as  large  a  number  of  charity 
children  and  orphans  who  are  supported  at  the  expense  of  the 
convent.  These  children  are  all  Greeks  or  Levantines;  but  as. 
the  language  of  the  Order  is  French,  they  speak  French 
fluently. 

So  much  for  a  general  idea  of  the  immense  difficulties  in  the 
way  of  foundation,  and  for  an  outline  of  the  personal  sacrifices 
and  admirable  courage  which  has  carried  it  through.  I  will  now 
try  to  give  an  outline  of  what  has  been  done.  To  begin  with,  the 
island  of  Tenos,  although  extremely  picturesque,  with  its  marble* 
rocks,  its  clear,  bare  hills  shadowed  lightly  by  purple  thyme  and 
gray  olives  and  torrent  beds  in  dry  weather  forming  zigzag  lines 
of  pink-blossomed  oleanders,  fig-trees,  mulberries,  tall,  feathery- 
headed  reeds  and  orange  and  lemon  trees,  is  as  devoid  of  all  th& 
necessary  adjuncts  of  modern  existence  as  it  is  possible  to  imagine 
any  place.  As  you  approach  it,  it  lies  npon  the  deep,  blue  Medi- 
terranean, a  stretch  of  dimpled  brown  hills,  curve  laid  inextricably 
upon  curve,  its  apparent  barrenness  softened  in  the  beauty  of  shape, 
as  Hie  morning  sea  mist,  which  has  rested  upon  its  base  like  a  fine 
white  veil,  gradually  lifts  itself  into  the  clouds.  From  an. 
testhetic  point  of  view,  the  picture  is  admirable ;  but  the  least 
fastidious  of  travellers  must  at  once  recognise  the  almost  impossi- 


Jigitizea  oy  \^jkjv~s 


SLV 


$72  The  Ursulirux  of  Teno*. 

bility  of  raising  upon  it  anything  like  a  comfortable  European 
home.  Yet,  nevertheless,  this  gigantic  feat  is  what  the  nuns,  by  a 
peculiar  genius,  patient  perseverance,  and  severe  economy,  have 
accomplished.  The  two-roomed  mud  cabin  of  twenty-three  yean 
ago  is  now  a  tradition,  and  they  have  made  themselves  a  lovely 
^centre  above  the  dirty  village  of  Lutra.  They  have  cultivated  the 
stony,  impoverished  soil  till  their  gardens  are  thickly  foliaged  by 
lemons,  oranges,  figs,  pomegranates,  cactuses,  oleanders,  oaks, 
olives,  apples,  pears,  and  apricots.  These  fruits  are  consumed  in 
the  convent  partly,  and  the  surplus  is  sold  in  Syra  for  a  mere  song, 
which,  if  they  could  export  to  England,  would  yield  them  a  profit- 
able interest.  Their  gardens  are  arranged  with  great  taste,  French 
and  English  flowers  blooming  side  by  side  with  the  luxuriant 
growths  of  the  country.  Nothing  more  lovely  than  the  site  upon 
which  their  mountain  home  is  built  can  be  imagined.  The  hills 
roll  one  above  the  other  in  different  colours,  and  the  valleys,  with 
their  stains  of  verdure  and  dusky  foliages  upon  the  red  soil  and 
marble  rocks,  are  unfolded  like  a  perpetual  panorama.  If  you 
mount  the  terrace  or  the  castra  higher  up — once  a  Venetian  fortress 
— you  will  see  the  dreamy  Mediterranean,  responsive  to  the 
slightest  emotions  of  the  Eastern  sky,  and  you  will  be  surrounded 
oy  soft,  blue  touches  of  land  breaking  above  its  waves  of  intenser 
colour — the  Grecian  Isles,  Syra,  with  its  white  town  half  hidden 
by  the  cloud-shadowed  hills,  Syphona,  a  misty  margin  of  gray 
upon  the  clear  horizon,  ancient  Delos,  so  dim  as  to  appear  neither 
wholly  sky  nor  land ;  desert  Delos,  with  darker,  fuller  curves  of  land 
upon  a  silver  edge  of  water,  and  nearest  Mycono,  a  blending  of 
the  purest  blues,  with  the  famous  Naxos  behind,  washing  which, 
whatever  its  mood  in  general,  the  Mediterranean  is  sure  to  take  its 
own  distinctive  colour — sapphire. 

The  convent  is  built  in  the  shape  of  the  latter  S,  with  the  new 
building  recently  added  for  the  pupils — a  long  line  of  class-rooms 
and  music  closets  below  and  the  dormitories  above  admirably 
arranged  so  that  each  girl  is  enclosed  in  a  kind  of  cell,  or  cabin, 
numbered  on  the  door  outside,  with  a  general  ceiling.  It  is  original 
and  much  better  than  the  old  system,  by  which  twenty  or  thirty 
.girls  felt  themselves  in  a  general  bedroom.  This  building  has 
proved  the  most  expensive  of  all,  and  the  undertaking  leaves  the 
community  considerably  in  debt ;  and  if  any  of  my  readers  feel 
sufficiently  impressed  by  the  endurance,  courage,  and  self-sacrifice 
I  have  indicated  in  this  short  sketch  to  desire  to  be  of  any  help  in 
•a  most  deserving  cause,  donations  to  enable  the  convent  to  pay  off 

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The  UhuUne*  cf  Tenos.  273- 

its  debt  will  be  very  gratefully  received  by  the  superior.*  Their 
charities  and  hospitalities  are  necessarily  great,  and  their  isolated 
position  precludes  them  from  the  enjoyment  of  those  resources  and 
assistances  which  the  communities  in  Catholic  countries  may  justly 
rely  upon* 

The  features  of  the  island  of  Tenos  gather  beauty  with 
familiarity,  and  the  inhabitants  are  as  simple  and  pure  and  primi- 
tive as  the  old  ideal  of  Arcadia,  without,  however,  the  picturesque- 
shepherd  costume  and  crook.  They  have  the  greatest  respect  for 
the  French  nuns,  teach  their  little  brown-faced  babies  to  salute 
them  by  kissing  their  hand,  and  with  the  untutored  courtesy  of 
their  peasant  race,  are  willing  and  anxious  to  render  the  sisters 
whatever  service  lies  within  their  power.  They  wonder  greatly 
at  the  taste  and  artistic  beauty  of  the  convent  grounds ;  at  the 
perfect  neatness  and  cleanliness  of  all  the  domestic  details,  and 
those  who  have  come  under  the  personal  influence  of  the  nuns  are 
already  endeavouring  to  beautify  their  own  homes.  A  servant 
man  who  had  worked  in  the  convent  has  gradually  turned  his  pig- 
sty home  into  a  charming  little  cottage,  with  a  neat  terrace- 
covered  with  trellised  vines,  the  poles  which  support  it  wreathed 
in  fragrant  basilica.  He  is  quite  proud  when  you  stop  in  the 
dirty  village  to  admire  the  incongruous  effect  of  his  pretty  house, 
and  tells  you  frankly  that  he  owes  his  taste  to  "  la  Mire  Assistante.'* 

The  influence  of  these  ladies  throughout  the  primitive  island 
is  remarkable,  and  by  the  simple-minded  peasants  who  have 
benefited  so  greatly  by  their  charity  and  labours,  are  gratefully 
recognised  as  the  one  oasis  of  civilization  in  their  midst.  Unfor- 
tunately they  are  not  rich  enough  to  give  any  more  practical 
evidence  of  gratitude  than  sincere  love  and  devotion. 

*  If  any  readers  of  The  Irish  Monthly  wish  to  act  upon  this  hint  and  to 
have  a  share  in  this  holy  work,  its  Editor  will  gladly  convey  their  offerings  to  the 
Mother  Superior. 


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AN  IRISH  POETS  AMERICAN  CRITICS. 

A  FEW  pages  of  excellent  type* writing  have  just  come  to  us 
from  the  capital  of  Pennsylvania,  or,  we  should  rather  say, 
from  its  chief  city,  for  the  seat  of  government  in  each  of  the 
States  is  not  its  biggest,  but  often  one  of  its  smallest  towns. 
These  type- written  pages  are  dated  "Philadelphia,  March  15," 
and  we  are  not  certain  whether  they  have  been  published  in  the 
Standard  of  that  city  or  in  some  other  transatlantic  journal.  In 
any  case,  we  give  them  a  cead  mile  failte,  for  they  are  by  one  of 
the  most  deservedly  popular  of  the  younger  race  of  American 
writers.  The  statement,  "  Who  rules  o'er  freemen  should  himself 
be  free,"  was  supposed  to  be  refuted  by  the  parallel  statement, 
"Who  drives  fat  oxen  should  himself  be  fat;"  and  perhaps  it 
would  be  equally  unreasonable  to  stipulate  that  the  critic  of  poetry 
should  himself  be  a  poet.  But  this  condition  would  not  disqualify 
Miss  Sarah  Trainer  Smith,  of  Philadelphia,  for  she  has  written 
some  beautiful  poetry,  though  her  ordinary  medium  is  bright  and 
picturesque  prose.    We  leave  this  American  critic  to  reveal  who 

the  Irish  poet  is  whom  she  wishes  to  introduoe  to  her  readers. 

*  *  * 

Poets,  they  say,  are  those  who  put  into  words  the  thoughts 
of  all  other  men.  The  truer  the  poet,  the  higher,  the  deeper,  the 
wider,  the  purer  the  source  from  whence  the  inspiration  is  drawn, 
the  greater  the  multitude  for  whom  he  interprets.  The  masters, 
therefore,  have  lovers  and  listeners  everywhere,  since  each  who 
reads  may  find  himself — his  very  inner  self — exquisitely  reflected. 
For  a  man  likes  to  see  himself  in  a  mirror  that  has  no  flaw  and  is 
fairly  luminous  with  the  light  of  heaven.  After  the  first  pang  of 
disappointment  which  such  truthful  portrayal  sometimes  brings, 
he  is  well  pleased  to  know  what  manner  of  man  he  is,  and  he 
carries  with  him  a  dim  and  sometimes  vague  vision  of  that  man 
which  helps — at  least,  it  does  not  hinder. 

All  poets  are  not  masters,  but  to  be  even  the  least  of  a  poet — 
to  hold  unwittingly  the  key  to  other  souls'  hidden  treasures,  to 
gather  the  pearls  from  unexplored  depths  and  bring  them,  fair 
and  pure,  into  the  sunlight,  to  set  to  music  the  unwritten  songs 
of  lonely  and  silent  lives,  and  sing  them  where  their  very  echoes 
cheer  sad  hearts — is  no  small  matter  in  this  life,  no  light  matter 
for  the  next    There  shall  surely  be  a  sterner  woe  than  common 


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Ah  Irish  Port*  American  Critic*.  276 

for  the  poet  who  profanes  Ms  gilts,  as  there  shall  burely  be  an 
*dded  glory  ior  him  who  exalts  it.  Any  poet  who  has  given 
happiness  and  comfort  may  well  take  "  heart  of  grace"  and  sing 
on,  sure  of  an  echo  that  cannot  die. 

Rosa  Mulholland  is  no  stranger  in  America  where  Catholic 
Tiearts  beat  true.    But  not  many  among  us  know  her  quite  as  her 
*"  Vagrant  Verses,"  show  her  to  us.  In  a  dainty  little  volume,  she  has 
-sent  forth  a  collection  of  the  songs-birds  she  has  loosed  from  time 
to  time  over  the  stormy  sea  of  the  world.     She  is  certainly  a  poet, 
for  she  has  a  message  for  many  moods,  those  quite  hours  of 
twilight  thought,  sometimes  peaceful,  sometimes  yearning,  some- 
times pathetic,  sometimes  hopeful,  but  never  passionate  or  strong, 
■eager  or  joyous.     One  must  seek  her  at  certain  seasons,  and  find 
rest.     She  does  not  chord  in  with  every  moment,  and  one  is  blind 
to  many  delicate  beauties  and  tender  effects  of  word-shading  in  a 
hurried  reading  of  her  best  poems.     But  taken  at  their  own  time, 
that  is,  when  the  heart  is  softened  and  shadowed,  even  by  a  passing 
mist  of  vague  regrets  or  sadness — there  are  lovely  lines,  lovely 
jwems  among  them,  hidden  under  quaint  and  simple  names.     "  The 
Wild  Geese,"  "  Cast  Out ! "  and  "  In  the  Dawn,"  have  more  that 
is  new  and  strange  and  sweet  in  their  utterance  than  one  looks  for, 
and  "Christ,  the  Gleaner,"   "A  Rebuke,"   and   "Failure,"  are 
lessons  worth  the  teaching. 

Her  choice  of  words  is  most  musical,  yet  far  from  eccentric,  and 
she  leaves  an  occasional  phrase  like  a  perfect  picture  in  the  memory. 
There  is  not  much  story  to  this  unfolding  of  herself.  There  is 
not  much  teaching,  still  less  preaching,  such  as  poets  too  often 
■"  set  out "  to  do.  Tet  she  does  teach,  and  the  Divine  Preacher 
speaks  through  her  words  in  sermons  to  be  heeded.  Seed  by  the 
wayside  springs  and  thrives  after  her  pages  are  sown.  Or,  to  finish 
with  the  simile  of  the  beginning,  her  song-birds  fold  their  wings  in 
quiet  nests,  and  chirp  and  twitter,  warble  softly  and  flute  sweetly 
in  broken  strains  from  out  of  the  night  stillness  and  darkness,  until 
one  sighs  the  faint  content  of  restful  thought  such  piping  brings, 
and  "  waits  for  day,"  to  find  it  beautiful,  since  God  has  made  so 
much  that  is  fair  in  other  souls  as  in  one's  own  life. 
*  *  * 

The  foregoing  is  only  one  out  of  many  indications  which  have 
already  reached  us  that  Miss  Mulholland's  poetry  is  sure  to  receive 
in  the  United  States  as  cordial  and  constant  a  welcome  as  her  prose 
fiction  has  already  received  in  that  greatcountry,m  which,  as  the  Rev. 
J.  Keegan  states  in  Donahoe's  Magazine,  "  hundreds  of  thousands  of 

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276  An  Irish  Poet's  American  Critics. 

young  people  owe  to  this  most  graceful,  pure,  and  tender  of  writers, 
some  of  the  most  pleasant  hoars  that  brighten  happy  youth.'" 
Nearer  home  than  the  Susquehanna  a  young  physician  has  expressed 
in  vagrant  verse  which  he  did  not  intend  to  be  thus  captured  the 
feelings  he  experienced    "  On  reading  Vagrant  Verses." 

Sweet  singer  of  our  Irish  land ! 

Thy  fervent  notes  are  fresh  and  clear, 
Like  morning  breezes  pure  and  bland 

O'er  hill  and  Tale  and  lonely  mere. 

Thy  song  to  sorrowing  hearts  is  balm, 

To  troubled  souls  it  breathes  repose, 
It  brings  the  love  and  hopeful  calm 

And  bliss  which  heaven  only  knows. 

Sing  on,  fair  poet !    Thy  pure  lay 

Has  brightened  hours  of  grief  and  pain : 
Sing  on ! — the  throstle  on  the  spray 

Can  trill  no  softer,  sweeter  strain. 

We  must  find  room  for  another  American  criticism  of  "  Vagrant 
Verses,"  for  it  is  from  the  authoritative  pen  of  Mr.  Maurice  Egan 
whose  high  position  among  men  of  letters  across  the  Atlantic  was 
partly  indicated  in  our  Nutshell  Biograms  last  month.  In  the 
course  of  his  article  in  the  New  York  Freeman9 s  Journal  of  March 
27,  he  says : — 

"  It  is  not  often  that  the  writer  of  such  prose  as  we  find  in 
<  The  Wicked  Woods  of  Tobereevil '  or  '  The  Wild  Birds  of  El- 
leevy '  excels  in  the  more  condensed  poetical  form  of  expression. 
Miss  Rosa  Mulholland's  *  Vagrant  Verses '  are  real  poems,  noble 
in  conception,  musical  in  utterance,  and  marked  by  perfect  taste 
and  an  exquisite  understanding  of  technical  difficulties  to  be  over- 
come in  writing  good  poetry.  Miss  Mulholland  is  no  longer  a 
writerjof  promise ;  she  has  more  than  fulfilled  all  the  promises  of 
her  earlier  work." 


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(    277    ) 


AUGUSTUS    LAW,    S.J. 

Notes  in  Remembrance. 

Bt  the  Editor. 

Part  II. 

Taking  up  again  these  memorial  notes  of  my  holy  and  amiable  brother 
dn  religion,  I  am  furnished  with  an  appropriate  text  from  a  very  un- 
likely quarter.  "King  Solomon's  Mines/'  which  has  suddenly  put 
Mr.  Rider  Haggard  forward  as  a  rival  for  even  Robert  Louis  Stevenson 
and  his  "  Treasure  Island,"  reminded  me  of  Father  Law's  Memoirs 
with  such  words  recurring  as  "  spoor  "  and  "  kraal "  and  "  out-span  " 
and  "  in-span."  But  we  are  still  far  away  from  the  African  phase 
of  Father  Law's  life.  We  left  him  in  the  Royal  Navy,  completely  at 
home  there,  and  feeling  like  the  Allan  Quartermain  of  Mr.  Haggard's 
strange  and  clever  tale.  "I  asked,  a  page  or  two  back,  what  is  a 
gentleman  ?  I'll  answer  it  now :  a  Royal  Naval  officer  is,  in  a  general 
sort  of  a  way,  though,  of  course,  there  may  be  a  black  sheep  among 
them  here  and  there.  I  fancy  it  is  just  the  wide  sea  and  the  breath 
of  God's  winds  that  washes  their  hearts  and  blows  the  bitterness  out 
of  their  minds  and  makes  them  what  men  ought  to  be." 

Augustus  Law  cherished  similar  sentiments  towards  the  Royal 
Ifavy  ;  and  certainly  he  himself  realised  this  ideal.  We  should  like 
to  bring  out  many  excellent  traits  of  his  character  as  shown  in  the 
record  of  his  seafaring  days ;  but  we  must  hurry  on  to  the  event  which 
-changed  the  current  of  his  life.  With  few  advantages  except  early 
training  and  the  atmosphere  of  a  refined  Christian  home  clinging 
round  him  morally,  while  physically  he  was  far  away  from  it,  he  had 
grown  up  a  pious  and  pure-minded  boy.  "  Blessed  are  the  clean  of 
<heart,  for  they  shall  see  God."  This  beatitude  is  frequently  verified 
in  the  close  connection  between  faith  and  purity.  The  first  hint  that 
we  get  in  Augustas  Law's  diary  of  any  unsettling  of  his  faith  in  the 
"  Church  of  his  baptism  "  is  found  under  May  12th,  1850,  when  he 
-expresses  his  great  sorrow  for  the  disagreement  between  Mr.  Gorham 
and  the  Bishop  of  Exeter,  and  his  surprise  that  such  a  thing  is  not 
^brought  before  the  Bishops  but  before  a  council  of  laymen.  July  23, 
«t  Malacca,  was,  perhaps,  his  first  visit  to  a  Catholic  Church,  and 
certainly  his  first  sight  of  a  Missal.  No  Protestant  horror  of  images, 
but  horror  at  the  enormity  of  our  Saviour's  sufferings : — "  There  were 
three  recesses  in  the  north  of  the  building ;  the  one  nearest  the  west 
end  00  at  lined  images  of  St.  Peter  (with  the  keys)  and  St.  Paul;  the 
Vol..  xiv.  No.  155  fii 

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278  Augustus  Law,  8.J. 

next  recess  contained  an  image  at  foil  length,  lying  down,  of  our  mostr 
Blessed  Saviour  Jesus  Christ,  the  holes  were  made  in  the  hands  and 
feet,  and  the  blood  running  down,  etc.,  ete.  It  made  me  quite  shudder 
when  I  first  looked  at  it.  The  next  recess  was  the  vestry,  and  there,, 
we  saw  the  Latin  prayer  books.  I  looked  for  the  Collect,  Epistle,, 
and  Gospel  for  this  week,  and  saw  it  was  the  same."  Not  many  lads 
in  his  circumstances  and  at  his  age  would  hare  known  whether  they 
were  the  same  or  not,  and  fewer  still  would  have  cared  to  know.  But 
Augustus  Law  evidently  had  the  anima  naturaliter  Christiana  ot  which 
Tertullian  speaks,  probably  in  a  different  sense — he  had  a  Catholic- 
nature  and  was  manifestly  one  of  those  whom  God  draws  to  Himself, 
not  by  a  sudden  and  violent  wrench,  but  sweetly  and  gradually,  en- 
abling them  to  use  the  graces  that  are  in  their  hands  so  as  to  deserve- 
higher  graces  later  on.  Yet,  two  months  afterwards,  he  writes  un- 
suspectingly to  his  father :  "  Dearest  Papa,  I  am  glad  you  have  got 
another  curate  as  good  and  better  than  Mr.  Pritt.  I  am  very  glad  you 
like  the  life  you  are  leading  so  much  and  are  never  in  low  spirits."' 
His  father's  change  had  already  begun. 

Monday,  21st  October,  1850,  is  marked  in  his  Diary  as  his  seven- 
teenth birthday.    Let  us  give  in  full  the  entry  for  the  next  day  :— 

Tuesday,  22nd  October,  1850 — Began  taking  charge  of  the  main-deck.  May  God 
give  me  grace  to  begin  this  eighteenth  year  of  m y  existence,  go  through  it,  and  end  it, 
in  His  fear.  May  I  constantly  remember  that  God's  all-seeing  eye  is  on  me  at  all 
times.  May  I  "  keep  my  heart  with  all  diligence,  for  out  of  it  are  the  issues  of  life."' 
May  I  "  in  all  my  ways  acknowledge  Him,  for  He  shall  direct  my  paths/9  and  may 
the  Holy  Spirit's  sacred  fire  burn  everything  contrary  to  Itself  out  of  my  impure 
heart ;  and  may  God,  of  His  infinite  goodness  and  mercy,  forgive  me  all  my  sins,  andi 
give  me  true  repentance  for  all  my  wicked  and  sinful  deeds,  through  my  blessed  and 
merciful  Saviour  Jesus  Christ.    Amen.    Amen. 

On  the  18th  of  May,  1851,  the  Vicar  of  Harborne  wrote  to  his  son 
a  letter,  from  which  the  following  is  said  to  be  an  extract,  though  it 
seems  to  be  complete : — 

My  dearest  Augustus,— The  controversies  which  have  taken  place,  and  are  still- 
going  on  in  England  on  religious  subjects  (I  may  as  well  frankly  tell  you),  have  very 
much  shaken  my  confidence  in  the  English  Church,  and  in  obedience  to  the  wishes  of 
dearest  Matilda  (who  is  all  kindness  to  me  in  the  matter),  I  am  going  to  see  the 
Bishop  of  Oxford.*  When  I  began  this  letter  I  did  not  intend  alluding  to  the  subject 
but  have  thought  it  right  to  give  you  early  intimation  of  my  anxiety  of  mind. 
Manning,  late  archdeacon,  having  left  us  to  join  the  Catholic  Church,  has  had  a 
great  effect  on  my  mind.  So  saintly  a  man  cannot,  in  my  opinion,  have  been  led 
otherwise  than  by  the  Spirit  of  God  to  the  step  he  has  taken.  My  eldest  brother  has 
been  told,  or  will  be  told  to-morrow,  of  my  doubts  and  difficulties.  Of  course,  in  my 
present  state  of  mind,  it  would  be  gross  and  awful  hypocrisy  in  me  to  return  to  officiate- 
as  a  minister  of  the  English  Church.  Though  what  I  believe  to  be  the  True  Light 
has  apparently,  perhaps,  somewhat  suddenly  burst  upon  me,  I  can  now  plainly  eee 
that,  unknown  to  mytelf,  the  work  has  been  gradually  going  on  within  me  since  your 
•  Ultimately  had  interview  instead  with  Dr.  Pueey. 


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Auguatui  Law,  B.J.  279 

Minted  mother's  departure,  perhaps  even  before  that  I  ean  now  tee  God's  hand  in 
everything  that  has  happened,  in  my  resigning  East  Brent  and  going  to  Harborne,  in 
my  becoming  President  of  Church  Union,  Ac  My  sermon,  which  I  sent  yon,  against 
"  Papal  Aggression,"  as  it  is  called  in  England  by  the  Protestants,  you  may  think 
inconsistent  with  my  present  feelingp,  and  so  it  must  be  considered,  I  own  ;  but  I  wrote 
that  sermon  Terr  hastily,  and  tried  to  believe  that  the  view  of  the  subject  taken  by 
all  high  church  persons  was  the  true  one.  Do  not  allow  yourself,  my  dear  boy,  to  be 
distressed  on  my  account,  for  though  I  feel  full  well  that  it  is  "  through  much  tribula- 
tion we  must  enter  into  the  Kingdom  of  God,"  yet  I  even  now  possess,  thank  God,  in  a 
great  degree,  a  foretaste  of  thnt perfect  peace  which  passeth  understanding.  I  now  only 
ask  you  to  be  more  than  ever  "  instant  in  prayer  "  to  God  to  guide  yourself  and  me  and 
all  we  love  into  all  truth.  I  will  (D.V.)  send  you  a  book  as  soon  as  I  can,  which  I 
should  wish  you  to  read.  All  your  brothers  and  sisters  are,  thank  God,  very  welL 
Dearest  Wissy  (who  long  ago,  you  know,  became  a  Catholic)  of  course  Tery  much 
sympathises  with  me  at  the  present  moment  God's  mercy  and  grace  hare  done  much 
for  her. — Ever,  my  Tery  dearest  son,  your  most  affectionate  father, 

W.  T.  Law. 
Augustus  wrote  in  his  diary,  after  reading  this  letter,  "  All  I  can 
say  is,  that  I  hope  he  will  be  guided  by  God  to  the  truth.     I  am  very 
anxious  for  my  next  letter."     He  answered  the  foregoing  on  July  2nd 
from  H.M.  S.  Amazon,  at  Singapore  : — 

Dearest  Father,— And  now,  dearest  papa,  I  will  answer  your  dear  kind  letter 
of  May  18th,  which  I  received  yesterday.  I  am  so  glad  you  liked  the  Exhibition 
so  much.  I  should  (as  you  said  I  would)  hare  liked  Tery  much  to  see  the 
model  ships,  Ac.  .  .  .  Concerning  your  change  of  religion,  I  hardly  know  whether  I 
ought  to  say  anything  or  nothing,  and  so  I  think  I  will  only  say  that  I  hope,  with  all 
my  heart,  dearest  father,  God  will  direct  you  to  the  truth.  1  am  Tery  anxious  to  get 
my  next  letter  to  hear  the  result  of  your  conference  with  the  bishop.  ...  I  will  try 
to  be  what  you  wished  me  to  be  in  your  letter,  continuing  instant  in  prayer  to  God  to 
guide  ns  all  to  the  truth,  and  may  I  scire  God  better  than  I  haTe  of  late.  .  .  .  Dear 
May  seems  to  be  as  if  sent  down  from  Heaven  in  the  place  of  my  dear  mother.  Giro 
my  Tery  best  lore  (and  thanks  for  all  her  loving  kindness  to  you)  to  dearest  May* 
to  . . .  and  the  other  dear  babies. — Believe  me  to  be  your  most  affectionate  and  dutiful 
son, 

Augustus  H.  Law. 

Later  in  that  month  the  midshipman,  reading  the  "  History  of  the 
Popes/'  by  some  Protestant  writer,  notes  the  part  about  the  founder 
of  the  Order  of  the  Jesuits : — "  Ignatius  Loyola  was  wounded  at  the 
defence  of  Pampeluna ;  then  commenced  his  labours."  St.  Ignatius 
and  he  were  destined  to  become  better  acquainted.  The  date  of  his 
next  letter  is  July  31,  which,  of  course,  he  did  not  recognise  as  the 
feast  of  St.  Ignatius.  His  father  had  told  him  of  his  interviews  with 
Lord  Ellenborough,  who  was  most  kind  to  him— with  Dr.  Pusey  and 
the  Bishop  of  Lichfield — and  how  he  had  promised  them  to  take  no 
decided  steps  for  six  months.  He  mentions  incidentally  that  he  was 
writing  on  his  forty-second  birthday;  and  he  concludes  his  letter 
thus: — 

I  forgot  to  say  that  I  saw  Mr.  Manning  the  other  day.  I  send  you  two  pamphlets, 
one  by  Mr.  Wilberforce  and  another  by  Mr.  Newman.  I  will  write  more  fully  next 
mail.    All  are  very  well,  thank  God.     My  own  most  firm  conviction  I  believe  to  be 

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280  Augustus  Law,  S.J. 

exactly  similar  to  Mr.  Wiiberforee's,  and  to  I,  of  course,  nerer  contemplate  retunrissr 
to  duty  at  a  clergyman  of  a  Church  which  I  look  upon  at  schismaHcaL  I  mutt  leave 
my  temporal  affaire  to  the  merciful  Providence  of  God,  but,  I  feel  assured,  among 
Catholic  families  I  thall  ultimately  find  friends  who  will  And  me  tome  honest  occupa- 
tion, by  which  I  may  earn  money  for  my  family.  If  not,  I  have  food  and  raiment 
for  them  all,  and,  by  God's  grace,  will  be  therewith  content  God  bled  you,  my 
dearest  Augustus,  Ac.,  Ac. 

These  last  words  allude  to  practical  considerations,  which  must  have 
terrible  weight  in  such  a  discussion.  The  poor  mendicant's  plea  far 
craving  a  more  abundant  alms — "For  the  sake  of  her  and  three 
childre" — must  make  itself  felt  in  many  a  disturbed  Anglican 
conscience.  I  have  been  told  that,  when  poor  Keble  was  hard  pressed 
by  an  argument,  he  used  to  say :  "  Let  us  see  what  answer  Charlotte 
has  to  this."  Of  another  it  was  said  that  he  placed  his  mother  and 
sisters  among  the  notes  of  the  true  Church.  Certainly  these  human 
ties  are  often  hard  to  break  through.  May  God  be  blessed  for 
enabling  so  many  to  sacrifice  for  his  sake  what  to  weak  human  nature 
seems  a  great  deal. 

These  remarks  regard  less  the  subject  of  our  sketch  than  his  father ; 
but  Augustus  also  had  his  share  in  the  sacrifice.  He  begins  by  cutting 
off  the  Illustrated  London  News  ! 

H.M.8.  Amazon,  Singapore, 
July  31, 1851. 

Dbabbst  Father, — I  received  your  dear  kind  letter  of  the  17th  June,  to-day.  I 
have  read  nearly  all  of  Mr.  Wiiberforee's  pamphlet  already.  I  am  very  glad,  dearest 
papa,  that  you  have  decided  upon  delaying  for  six  months, — as,  of  course,  you  will  have 
plenty  of  time  to  think  about  it.  I  hope,  dearest  papa,  you  will  be  able  to  get  some 
occupation,  as  from  what  you  say,  it  seems  you  do  not  intend  ever  again  returning  to 
duty  at  Harborne,  and  also,  I  suppose,  you  will  ultimately  join  the  Roman  Catholic 
Faith.  Do  not  think  at  all  of  me  (I  mean  concerning  my  outfit  when  I  get  home 
£>.  7.)  as  far  as  regards  money  affairs,  as  I  will  save  up  enough  for  what  I  shall 
want  I  hare  now  more  than  £60  clear,  and  I  hope  by  the  time  I  get  home  to  have 
saved  £20  more.  And,  dearest  papa,  as  any  unnecessary  expense,  however  small, 
ought  to  be  avoided,  as  far  as  I  am  concerned,  I  do  not  care  about  the  "  Illustrated 
London  News  "  being  sent  out.  In  fact,  the  captain  is  always  kind  enough  to  lend  it 
to  us,  and  all  his  other  papers.  I  am  now  very  anxious,  more  than  ever,  to  see  you 
and  all  dear  to  me, — May,  and  all  my  dear  brothers  and  sisters.  I  hope  God  will 
grant  us  all  a  happy  meeting  in  less  than  a  year. 

August  1. — I  have  now  finished  reading  both  those  pamphlets,  I  look  forward 
very  much  to  your  next  letter,  in  which  you  say  you  will  write  more  fully,  as  I  wish 
to  know  all  your  reasons,  dearest  father.  And  now,  dearest  papa,  I  will  tell  you  what 
is,  and  what  has  been  going  on  here.  I  think,  I  told  you  of  the  loss  of  the  "  .Reynard." 
.  .  .  Give  my  VERY  BEST  love  to  dearest  May,  .  .  .  and  kiss  the  two  other  dear 
babies  for  me.  Tell  them  all  how  happy,  happy  I  shall  be  to  see  all  their  dear  faces 
again  soon.  Please  our  gracious  and  kind  God  to  grant  it  Kiss  them  all  for  me, 
dearest  father,  and  give  my  best  love  to  all  my  uncles  and  aunts,  the  Noons,  and  New- 
bolts.— Believe  me  to  be  your  most  affectionate  and  dutiful  (I  hope)  son, 

Augustus. 

May  God  bless  and  preserve  you,  and  guide  us  all  to  the  truth  through  Jesus 
Christ.     Best  love  again  to  all. 


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Augustus  Law,  8.  J.  281 

His  diary  for  August  1,  1851,  contains  this  little  prayer:  "  0  God* 
direct  my  dear  father  to  the  Truth,  for  Jesus  Christ's  sake,  and  grant 
that  I  may  be  much  more  constant  in  prayer  and  in  reading  Thy 
precious  Word,  and  grant  that  I  may  form  my  life  by  it.  Oh  I  hear 
me,  through  my  dear  Saviour." 

Mr.  William  Towry  Law  was  received  into  the  Catholic  Church  on 
the  19th  of  September,  1851.  Augustus  ends  with  these  words  his 
answer  to  the  letter  giving  this  news :  "  I  am  very  glad,  dearest  father, 
that  you  are  so  happy.  May  God  bless  you  for  ever !  If  ever  a  son 
ought  to  be  grateful  to  a  dear  father,  for  his  kindness  and  trouble 
about  him,  it  is  me." 

As  the  son,  not  the  father,  is  our  hero,  we  must  resist  the  tempta- 
tion of  quoting  the  letter  in  which  the  ex- Chancellor  of  Bath  and 
Wells  described  his  reception  into  the  Church,  and  his  happy  First 
Communion.     Boom  must  be  found  for  one  little  extract : 

There  is  one  circumstance,  as  it  long  weighed  with  and  influenced  me,  so  it  natu- 
rally cannot  but  influence  you.  I  mean  your  blessed  mother  baring  tired  and 
departed  in  communion  with  the  English  Church.  But  the  Catholic  faith  was  never 
presented  to  her  mind  for  acceptance,  and  to  such  the  Catholic  Church  does  not  deny 
(as  some  Protestants  assert  it  does),  an  assured  hope  of  eternal  bliss,  if  they  live,  as 
•he  (God  be  praised)  did  lire,  faithfully  up  to  the  light  she  had  received.  I  cannot 
say  what  a  comfort  it  is  to  me  now  as  a  Catholic  to  mention  her  beloved  name  day  by 
d*y  in  my  prayers,  and  especially  at  Holy  Communion,  and  then  to  repeat  the  Catho- 
lic petition :  "  May  the  souls  of  the  faithful  departed  through  the  mercy  of  God  rest 
in  peace." 

From  a  later  letter  these  words  may  be  quoted : — 

I  will  only  give  you  all  the  news,  without  further  allusion  to  my  conversion,  except 
•eying  that  every  day  I  find  more  and  more  reason  to  thank  God  for  His  great  mercy 
to  me.  The  worldly  trials, — low  of  friends,  coolness  of  others,  and  insults  from  some, 
— I  regard  as  nothing,  in  comparison  to  the  spiritual  gain  of  which  I  hare  become 
partaker. 

Almost  on  the  very  day  (December  23)  that  Mr.  Law  was  writing 
thus  at  Boulogne,  Augustus  wrote  this  prayer  at  Singapore,  on 
Christmas  Bay,  1851. 

Almighty  God,  I  beseech  Thee  to  hear  the  prayer  that  I  am  about  to  offer  to  Thee. 
0  remember  not  my  former  sins,  but  forgive  them,  and  wash  them  out  with  the 
blood  of  the  Lamb,  and  withhold  .not  Thy  grace  from  me.  I  pray  Thee  to  giro  me  a 
quiet  mind  and  resolve  my  doubts  concerning  the  true  religion.  Lead  me  to  the  truth 
as  it  is  in  Christ  Jesus.  Give  me  grace  to  watch  and  pray,  lest  I  enter  into  temptation. 
Let  me  henceforth  lead  a  new  life,  directing  my  whole  life  and  duties  by  that  Holy 
Word  thou  hast  given  us.  Stay  my  mind  on  Thee,  and  let  me  trust  in  Thee,  and  keep 
me  in  perfect  peace.  Finally,  I  pray  Thee  to  direct  my  dear  stepmother,  and  all  my 
brothers  and  sisters,  relations,  and  friends  to  the  truth ;  and  if  my  dear  father  has 
erred,  let  it  not  be  too  late,  but  bring  him  back  again,  and  hear  my  prayer  for  the 
sake  of  Jesus  Christ,  who  came  into  the  world  on  this  day  to  save  miserable  sinners. 

Thirty-five  years  afterwards,  that  "  dear  father  n  blessed  God  for 
having  allowed  his  son  to  live  and  die  a  holy  priest  of  the  Catholic 

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282  Augustus  Law,  8.  J. 

Church,  into  which  he  was  drawn  through  such  unlikely  ways,  and 
about  which  he  had  reasoned  so  well  in  his  boyish  diary,  December  1 7, 
1851. 

Oh !  can  the  Church  who  can  prove  the  succession  of  popes  from  St  Peter  (no 
one  doubt*  it),  can  that  Church  be  the  wrong  one  ?  Did  not  Christ  say  He  would  be 
with  the  Church  all  days  ?  Certainly  great  abuses  had  crept  into  the  Church  about 
the  time  of  Luther.  Are  they  there  now  ?  These  thoughts  are  constantly  recurring 
in  my  mind  again  and  again.  And  there  is  one  thing,  it  may  be  wrong  to  think  it, 
because  all  men  are  liable  to  error,  but  my  dear  father  having  gone  over  to  that 
Church,  I  can't  imagine  that  he  would  have  left  the  Anglican  Church  for  that  one,  if 
there  was  anything  wrong  in  that  Church.  He  brought  me  up  certainly  in  the 
Protestant  faith,  and,  in  the  same  manner,  if  he  had  been  a  Roman  Catholic,  I  should 
have  been  one.  0  God,  direct  me  to  the  one  true  faith  through  Jesus  Christ.  Oh, 
hear  my  prayer,  most  gracious  God. 

Just  before  this  passage,  he  mentions  that  he  had  not  read  the 
whole  of  Allies' "  See  of  St  Peter,"  he  was  so  convinced  on  that  point. 
The  other  books  sent  by  his  father  at  first  were,  Cardinal  Wiseman's 
"Lectures  on  the  Catholic  Religion,"  Keenan's  "Controversial 
Catechism,"  and  Orsini's  "  Life  of  the  Blessed  Virgin."  After  getting 
full  marks  in  navigation,  he  unbends  his  mind  over  "  The  Garden  of 
the  Soul."  He  questions  a  Catholic  (Quarter-master  Grant),  and 
records  his  conviction  that  "the  Roman  Catholic  Church  is  not  as 
black  as  she  is  painted."  His  watch  stopped  and  be  went  to  Singapore 
to  "  get  it  under  weigh  again."  After  "  cruising  about  the  church  "  * 
for  a  time,  he  found  out  the  house  of  the  Priest,  li.  Barbe,  whom  he 
describes  as  a  true  Christian.  But  though  he  studied,  and  prayed,  and 
inquired,  he  made  up  his  mind  that  he  would  not  make  up  his  mind 
till  he  had  talked  over  everything  with  his  father.  For,  luckily,  after 
his  four  years'  voyaging,  his  ship  had  been  ordered  home.  This  good 
news  reached  the  anxious  parent  eighteen  days  later  than  it  ought  to 
have  done,  because  the  Protestant  friend  of  thirty  years'  standing,  to 
whose  care  the  returning  exile's  letter  was  addressed,  had  the  barbarity 
to  write  "  Not  known  "  over  the  name  of  "  the  pervert,"  whose  address 
he  knew  perfectly.  We  shall  only  give  the  last  words  of  the  p&rvtrfs 
letter  of  welcome.  "  You  will  land  in  the  month  of  May,  a  month  very 
dear  to  Catholics,  and  I  rejoice  to  think  of  your  arrival  amongst  us  at 
such  a  propitious  period  of  the  year.  God  bless  you."  But  we  must 
give,  not  merely  the  last  words,  but  the  whole  "  welcome  home  "  of 
his  sister  Matilda,  who,  we  think  it  well  to  remind  our  readers,  is  now 
Sister  Jane  Margaret  Mary,  of  the  Order  of  the  Visitation,  at  Westbury, 

near  Bristol. 

Roehamfton,  April  24,  1852. 
My  darling  Gutta, — You  may  well  fancy  how  happy  I  am  at  the  thought  of 
eoon  seeing  you.    As  I  haje  not  written  to  you  since  clearest  papa  has  had  the  great 
happiness  of  becoming  a  member  of  the  Holy  Catholic  Church,  you  will  most  likely 

*  These  nautical  idioms  used  to  break  out  in  after-life.    When  shown  into  the 
chapel  at  Hodder,  he  was  surprised  to  "  find  all  hands  on  their  knees." 

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Augustus  Law,  SJ.  283 

like  to  know  what  I  think  about  it.  I  thought  retry  differently  at  first  to  what  I  dor 
now,  but  at  length,  by  Almighty  God's  grace,  I  have  come  to  the  light  of  the  truth, 
as  I  hope,  ere  long,  you  will,  my  own  darling  brother.  As  I  am  no  theologian,  I 
will  enclose  one  of  dearest  papa's  letters  to  me  on  that  subject,  which  I  think  you  will 
like.  You  must  take  care  not  to  lose  it,  my  darling.  I  suppose  papa  has  already  told 
.  you  that  I  am  at  school  in  a  convent  of  the  Sacred  Heart,  and  also  that  it  is  the  same 
house  which  grandpapa  and  all  my  aunts  and  uncles  lired  in  for  a  long  time.  By  what  I 
have  said  in  the  former  part  of  my  letter,  you  will  most  likely  conclude  that  I  hare 
become  a  Catholic.  I  and  dear  little  Augusta  were  received  into  the  Catholic  Church 
on  the  25th  of  March,  which,  as  you  know,  is  the  Feast  of  the  Annunciation  of  the 
Blessed  Virgin ;  I  am  also  going  to  have  the  intense  happiness  of  making  my  first 
communion  next  month.  How  thankful  I  ought  to  be  for  all  the  graces  Almighty 
God  bestows  upon  me  I  I  hope  and  pray,  my  darling  brother,  that  you  also  will 
soon  be  received  as  one  of  the  members  of  the  Holy  Catholic  Church.  I  think  and 
hope  you  will  hare  great  influence  with  dearest  Franky,  who  does  not  think  much  of 
that  subject,  I  am  afraid,  either  way.  He  may  be  waiting  to  see  what  you  will  do. 
...  I  long  to  see  you  and  talk  to  you  on  that  subject,  but,  as  it  is  impossible,  I  must 
wait  until  I  can.  Little  Geraldine  and  Agnes  are  very  dear  little  things.  They  have 
lately  had  the  hooping-cough,  but  are  now  getting  better.  Tou  will  find  them  at 
Kensington.  They  have  been  staying  at  Hampton  Court  while  the  house  was  prepar, 
tng,  but  have  now  gone  home.  My  other  brothers  are  at  Oscott  All  are  quite  well, 
■and  join  with  me,  I  am  sure,  in  their  prayers  that  you  may  become  a  fervent  Catholic 
Little  Augusta  sends  her  best  love  and  kisses,  and  believe  me  to  remain  ever  your 
most  affectionate 

Little  Twittt. 

The  writer  of  this  letter  made  her  First  Communion  a  few  days 
after,  May  2nd,  and  the  news  of  her  brother's  arrival,  which  had  been 
kept  from  her,  for  fear  of  distracting  her  too  much  during  her  retreat 
of  preparation,  was  first  told  to  her  by  her  father  who  came  to  share 
iier  joy  on  that  holy  epoch  of  her  young  life. 

Mr.  Law  had  expressed  his  joy  that  his  sailor  would  reach 
JEagland  in  the  Month  of  Mary.  In  the  very  heart  of  that  month, 
•his  diary  contains  those  two  entries : — 

Saturday,  15th  May,  1862.—  Saw  the  Bishop  of  South wark  in  the  evening,  and 
-after  two  or  three  hours'  talking,  he  convinced  me  that  the  Holy  Catholie  Church  was 
that  in  communion  with  the  See  of  Rome.  Made  my  general  confession.  My 
father  .  .  .  very  much  delighted. 

Sunday,  16th  May,  1852. — I  was  received  by  the  Bishop  of  Southwark  in  the  new 
church  at  Mortlake.  There  was  a  Confirmation  there  also  before  I  was  received,  and 
the  bishop  gave  a  beautiful  exhortation  to  those  about  to  be  confirmed.  We  stayed  a 
ehort  time  at  the  priest's  house,  and  then  went  home. 

This  Bishop  of  Southwark  was  an  Irishman,  the  son  of  a  private 
.soldier,  and  his  life  has  been  sketched  in  our  Magazine  (Vol.  VII.,  page 
•89),  partly  because  he  teas  an  Irishman,  but  chiefly  because  ample 
materials  were  furnished  by  Miss  Kathleen  O'Meara's  excellent  life  of 
this  first  Bishop  of  Southwark.  "  Dear  Dr.  Grant "  received  Mrs.  Law, 
-also,  into  the  Church  before  the  end  of  that  month. 

With  that  eventful  May  of  1852  it  will  be  best  to  pause  in  our 
.story ;  but  the  last  page  of  the  May  diary  has  a  few  items  which  for 

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284  To  a  Musician. 

various  reasons  we  are  unwilling  to  pass  over.  The  first  Bishop  of 
Southwark,  when  he  received  Augustus  Law  into  the  Church,  had  not 
completed  the  first  of  his  twenty  years  of  episcopacy.  He  was  succeeded' 
by  Dr.  Danell,  to  whom  a  much  shorter  term  was  allotted ;  and  he  by 
the  Redemptorist,  Father  Coffin,  who  almost  began  his  last  sickness- 
at  the  same  time.  The  present  Bishop  of  Southwark  figures  in 
Augustus  Law's  diary  on  the  same  page  with  Dr.  Grant  May  27,. 
we  read :  "  Attended  evening  devotions  at  Hammersmith  Chapel,  and 
afterwards  had  a  talk  with  Mr.  Butt  about  Confirmation.  I  like  him, 
very  much.  I  have  chosen  St,  Aloysius  Gonzaga  for  my  patron  saint, . 
he  having  had  those  virtues  which  I  most  stand  in  need  of." 

The  next  day  "Miss  Gladstone  called.  She  seems  a  very  nice- 
person  " — namely,  the  Catholic  sister,  lately  deceased,  of  the  great 
statesman,  who,  in  his  old  age,  dares  to  attempt  the  renewal  of  the 
youth  of  Ireland,  A  few  pages  further  on  we  have  another  amiable- 
reference  to  this  lady,  who  lived  and  died  a  fervent  Catholic ;  "  I  am 
very  glad  old  Helen  is  enjoying  herself  on  the  Rhine.  How  very  kind, 
of  Miss  Gladstone  to  take  her." 

But  this  is  breaking  our  agreement  not  to  go  beyond  May,  1852,. 
which  ends  with  this  memorandum :  "  Bought  a  rosary  at  Burns's,  and 
the  Cardinal  sent  me  yesterday  a  crucifix  blessed  by  the  Pope — so  E 
am  now  complete." 


TO  A  MUSICIAN. 


THY  hand  strays  slowly  o'er  the  trembling  wire,. 
Touching  it  softly,  yet  with  master-grace ; 
I  marvel  at  the  passion  on  thy  face, 
Thy  gray  eyes  glowing  with  unwonted  fire. 
Ah !  thy  ambition  seeks  for  something  higher 
Than  level  life  in  this  calm  country  place, 
Its  quiet  charms  have  in  thy  heart  no  space — 
Go  forth! — into  the  world  of  thy  desire. 

Go  forth  and  win  applause.    The  proud  will  come 

In  mute  obedience  to  thy  music's  power; 

Perchance,  friend,  thou  shalt  miss,  in  some  great  hour f 
The  tranquil  pleasures  of  thy  boyhood's  home. 
The  wild  lark's  melody  from  sky-blue  dome — 

The  perfect  scent  of  half-blown  apple-flower. 

Anna  T.  Johnston. 


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(    286    ). 


NEW  BOOKS. 

We  ended  our  book-notes  last  month  by  announcing  the  very  remark- 
able work,  just  published  by  Messrs.  Burns  and  Oates  for  Dr.  Frederick 
George  Lee,  Vicar  of  Lambeth—"  King  Edward  the  Sixth,  Supreme 
Head :  an  Historical  Sketch,  with  an  Introduction  and  Notes."  Dr- 
Lee  has  expended  great  pains  and  labour  on  this  work,  which  begins 
with  a  most  interesting  "  illustrative  genealogical  chart,"  and  the  fol- 
lowing noteworthy  dedication :  "To  that  venerable  prelate  and  holy 
witness  to  the  truth,  John  Cardinal  Fisher,  sometime  Bishop  of  the 
ancient  diocese  of  Koch  ester;  in  memory  of  his  solemn  warning  to  the 
Convocation  of  Canterbury  against  change,  falsehood  and  wrong ;  a 
warning  long  ago  proved  to  have  been  so  timely  and  needful ;  and  in. 
remembrance  of  his  fidelity,  patience,  and  faith,  even  unto  death, 
this  volume  is  inscribed  with  sincere  veneration,  in  the  fervent  hope 
that  Authority  may  soon  decree  to  him  the  beautiful  aureole  of  the 
Beatified,  and,  in  the  face  of  the  Church  Militant,  seal  for  him  the 
abiding  dignity  of  the  saintly  martyr  crowned."  Strange,  indeed,  that 
an  Anglican  Vicar  can  thus  speak  of  the  beatification  of  Cardinal 
Fisher  by  the  Holy  See,  and  can  still  remain  an  Anglican  Vicar.  What* 
ever  the  author's  position  may  be  as  a  theologian,  his  industry  as  an 
historian  is  shown  at  the  outset  by  seven  pages  enumerating  the 
existing  portraits  of  Edward  VI.  and  the  more  important  personages- 
mixed  up  with  his  history.  That  history  is  told  with  great  minuteness,, 
and  with  the  vigour  and  piotureequeness  which  the  readers  of  Dr.. 
Lee's  previous  writings  have  learned  to  expect.  What  conclusion 
does  he  draw  from  his  own  work  ?  Has  he  heard  of  the  admonition 
given  by  Pius  IX.  to  one  who  tarried  outside  the  visible  communion 
of  God's  Church,  in  the  hope  of  drawing  many  out  of  error  along  with 
himself  ?   "  Save  your  own  soul,  my  child,"  said  the  amiable  Pontiff. 

A  work  which  will  be  of  great  utility  to  priests  working  in  England,, 
and  which  will  interest  English-speaking  priests  in  other  parts  of  the 
Church,  has  been  published  at  Shakspere's  town,  Stratf  ord-on-Avon ; — 
"  The  Synods  in  English,  being  the  text  of  the  four  Synods  of  West* 
minster,  translated  into  English,  and  arranged  under  headings,  with 
numerous  documents  and  references."  The  translation  has  been  made 
by  the  Bev.  Robert  E.  Guy,  O.S.B.,  under  the  supervision  of  another 
English  Benedictine,  Dr.  Hedley,  Bishop  of  Newport  and  Menevia. 
Bishop  Hedley  introduces  the  work  in  an  interesting  preface.  The- 
printing  is  very  creditable  to  St.  Gregory's  Press. 

A  few  particularly  graceful  words  of  preface  are  placed  by  th* 

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~286  Note*  on  New  Book*. 

learned  and  distinguished  convert,  Mr.  T.  W.  Allies,  in  front  of  the 
goodly  tome  of  five  hundred  pages,  in  which  his  daughter  has  gathered 
her  "  Leaves  from  St.  Augustine."  Miss  Mary  H.  Allies  has  trans- 
lated for  herself  from  the  original.  Her  father  has  only  revised  her 
work  when  completed.  The  arrangement  and  the  divisions  of  matter 
ihelp  greatly  in  calling  our  attention  to  points  of  interest;  but  we 
wonder  how  the  index  to  so  copious  a  selection  of  passages  can  have 
<been  crushed  into  two  or  three  pages.  It  is  a  valuable  and  interesting 
-vrork,  and,  brought  out  so  excellently,  it  is  very  cheap  for  six  shillings. 
We  hope  the  writer  of  the  following  tasteful  notice  of  "  The 
^Birthday  Book  of  our  Dead"  (Dublin  :  M.  H.  Gill  and  Son),  which 
w*  copy  from  the  American  Ave  Maria,  did  not  intend  a  pun  in  his 
ifirst  sentence : — 

Now  that  the  fashion  of  birthday  books  has  become  almost  a  passion,  it  is 
.gratifying  to  find  one  compiler  whose  sentiment  is  so  deep  that  it  takes  a  most 
grave  and  natural  turn.    The  result  is  a  little  volume  bound  in  olive,  stamped 
with  ink  and  gold,  and  bearing,  above  a  vignette  of  solemn  emblems,  thia 
.legend,  "  Death-Days  are  Birthdays  of  the  Real  life."    The  numerous  appro- 
priate poetical  and  prose  selections  allotted  to  each  day  in  the  year,  are  gathered 
.from  many  quarters,  and  evidence  a  liberal  and  elegant  taste  in  the  editor.    At 
'the  foot  of  each  page  there  are  four  blank  lines,  upon  which  may  be  inscribed 
the  names  of  the  loved  and  lost    Surely  no  more  wholesome  reminder  of  the 
.  joys  that  are  past,  and  of  the  greater  joys  that  are  to  come  to  the  deserving, 
<  can  be  found  than  is  offered  in  this  modest  volume.    And  no  one  can  turn  its 
\pages,  even  where  they  are  still  uninacribed,  without  an  emotion  at  once 
..pathetic  and  humanizing,  as  the  eye  glances  at  the  ominous  vacant  line,  and  the 
tstill,  small  voice  of  the  heart  whispers,  •*  Who  next,  I  wonder  P  " 

"The  Three  Sorrows  of  Story-telling"  is  a  lecture  delivered  by 
Mr.  James  Murphy,  before  the  National  League  Institute  of  Deny, 
and  may  be  had  for  sixpence,  from  the  printer,  James  Montgomery, 
Carlisle-row,  Deny.  We  do  not  agree  with  the  lecturer's  remark 
-about  not  altering  the  substance  or  form  of  his  composition ;  no  one 
"would  have  found  fault  with  any  change  which  further  study  showed 
to  be  desirable.  But,  as  it  stands,  it  is  very  interesting  and  will  help 
to  prepare  its  readers  for  the  study  of  a  portion  of  our  country's 
history,  from  which  some  of  our  poets  have  drawn  and  others  are  sure 
to  draw  their  most  poetical  themes. 

The  eloquent  Bishop  of  Angers,  when  he  was  simply  Abbe  Freppel, 
•and  professor  of  sacred  eloquence  at  the  Sorbonne,  preached  to  the 
students  some  "  Discourses  on  the  Divinity  of  Jesus  Christ,"  of  which 
a  good  translation  has  just  appeared  in  a  book  which  is  sent  post  free 
ior  one  shilling.  Though  brief  and  unpretending,  it  is  one  of  the 
.soundest  and  most  effective  books  of  its  kind.  Its  title  page  is  the  first 
on  which  we  have  noticed  the  name  of  the  publisher,  James  Masterson, 
-48  South-street,  Qrosvenor-square,  London. 

The  names  of  some  brochures  which  lie  before  us  will  be  enough 

Digitized  by  VjUUV  I  v. 


Notes  on  New  Books.  287 

"to  recommend  them  to  those  for  whom  they  are  intended:  "  A  Lecture 
on  Oatholio  Ireland,"  by  the  Rev.  J.  P.  Prendergaat  (Dublin:  M.  H. 
•<3ill  and  8one);  "  The  Gospel  Story  of  the  Passion,  of  our  Lord,"  by 
'the  Rev.  Arthur  Ryan  (London :  Oatholio  Truth  Society) ;  "  Notes  on 
the  History  of  the  Catholic  Church  in  England  "  (same  publishers)  j 
the  Bull  for  the  present  Jubilee  in  Latin,  with  notes  by  a  Redemptorist 
Theologian  (Benziger,  New  York) ;  and  "  Prayers  for  the  Jubilee," 
by  the  Rev,  Dr.  Richards  (Burns  and  Oatee).  "The  Child  of  Mary 
before  Jesus  abandoned  in  the  Tabernacle"  (Burns  and  Oates)  is 
almost  too  holy  and  too  small  to  be  mentioned  here.  One  of  the  most 
wonderful  investments  for  threepence  is  the  O'Connell  Press  edition  of 
Goldsmith's  "  Vicar  of  Wakefield."  No.  6  of  the  "  Lays  of  St.  Joseph's 
Ohapel "  is  devoted  to  St.  Agnes  and  St.  Dorothy  (Burns  and  Oates). 

Just  in  time  for  May,  Burns  and  Oates  have  brought  out  a  very 
pretty  new  edition  of  "  The  Graces  of  Mary,"  one  of  the  best  books 
-  of  its  kind,  showing  more  literary  skill  and  certainly  a  better  taste  in 
English  verse  than  any  other.  Why  is  not  the  compiler  named  on  the 
title  page,  especially  if  he  or  she  be  dead  P  For  it  is  many  years  since 
this  little  book  came  out  first,  though  there  is  no  sign  here  that  the 
present  is  not  its  first  appearance.*  Father  Kenelm  Digby  Best,  of  the 
London  Oratory,  has  also  very  opportunely  published  through  the 
same  publishers  a  third  edition  of  his  "May  Chaplet,"  very  sweet 
translations  of  a  collection  of  May  canticles,  written  in  French  by 
Father  Philpin  de  Riviere,  another  disciple  of  St  Philip. 

The  last  item  on  our  list  is  not  a  book  but  only  a  very  neat  pro- 
gramme of  work  to  be  gone  through  in  April,  May,  and  June  of  this 
.  year  by  the  Irish  Literary  Institute  of  Liverpool.  A  very  appetising 
bill  of  fare  is  set  forth.  It  strikes  us  as  very  judicious  to  appoint  only 
two  speakers  for  each  debate,  one  on  each  side.  When  several  com- 
batants engage  on  each  side,  the  fight  is  unduly  prolonged,  especially 
when  the  chairman  thinks  with  Persius  that  he  ought  not  to  be  semper 
auditor  tantum.  The  subjects  of  the  essays  to  be  read  by  various 
members,  are  "Richard  Dalton  Williams,"  "Dr.  Doyle  (J.K.L.)," 
44 Gerald  Griffin,"  "Scientific  Irishmen,"  "Blaine  on  England," 
■" Richard  Lalor  Sheil,  a  type  of  Irish  character,"  "Irish  Folk 
Xore,"  "  Charles  Dickens,"  "  John  Mitchel,"  "  Victor  Hugo,"  "  Terence 
Bellew  Mac  Manus,"  and,  finally,  "  The  Making  of  Books."  Part  of 
this  programme  has  already  been  carried  out;  but  to  such  of  the 
members  as  have  still  before  them  the  pleasant  task  of  drawing  up 
and  elaborating  their  essays  we  may  venture  to  give  a  hint  which  may 
be  found  useful  now  and  hereafter.  In  such  a  city  as  Liverpool  they 
no  doubt  have  access  to  some  large  library  like  the  King's  Inns  in 
Dublin,  or  Trinity  College,  where  the  back  volumes  of  the  magazines 

•  We  perceWe  that  The  Tablet  of  April  17  falls  into  the  blunder  of  retiewing  it 
-expressly  as  the  newest  of  new  books  instead  of  thirty  years  old. 

Digitized  by  G00gle 


288  Love's  Advent. 

and  reviews  are  preserved.  These  contain  an  inexhaustible  treasury  of 
materials  for  biographical  essays  and  other  papers  of  the  sort    Use- 
less treasures,  if  it  were  not  for  a  marvellous  enterprise  undertaker* 
and  achieved  by  Dr.  Poole,  Librarian  of  the  Public  Library  of  Chicago,, 
with  the  co-operation  of  many  American  and  European  librarians  and 
literary  men.    We  have  long  intended  to  give  some  account  of  this 
^reat  "  Index  to  Periodical  Literature.*'    At  present  we  have  only  con- 
tsulted  it  to  inform  the  gentleman  of  the  Irish  Literary  Institute  who- 
is  to  discuss  John  Mitchel's  life  and  writings  on  the  1 1th  of  June,  that 
he  may  find  useful  information  in  the  Gentleman's  Magazine  (New 
Series)  vol.  14,  p.  593,  and  the  Dublin  University  Magazine,  vol.  85,. 
p.  481,  besides  two  articles  in  the  Democratic  Review  which  is  probably 
inaccessible  at  Liverpool.    As  for  "  Charles  Dickens  "  (June  4),  threes 
large  and  close  columns  are  devoted  to  exact  references  to  magazines, 
and  reviews  discussing  him  and  his  writings  from  every  point  of  view. 
Finally,  Sheil  is  to  be  discussed  on  May  21st ;  the  essayist  might  get 
valuable  information  in  the  Dublin  Review,  Iraser,  Blackwood,  and  the. 
other  periodicals  indexed  by  Dr.  Poole.    The  writer  on  "  Irish  Folk 
Lore"  (May  28),  may  hear  of  something  to  his  advantage  in    the- 
Dublin  University  Magazine,  vols.  68,  69,  88,  and  89,  and  in  CornhilU 
voL  35.    We  have  not  time  to  specify  the  pages  given  in  this  wonder- 
ful "  Index  to  Periodical  Literature,"  which  ought  to  find  an  honoured, 
place  in  every  large  library. 


LOVE'S  ADVENT. 

"  "I  I*  Y  dreamful  hills,  purple  with  heather  flowers, 
JjJL    Wax  radiant  'neath  the  passing  of  His  feet ; 
And  God's  dear  sunshine,  amber-clear  and  sweet, 

Clings  to  His  blown  gold  hair ;  from  green  cool  bowers 

Wing  the  small  birds,  a-thrill  with  song  that  dowers 
The  sapphire  day :  how  shall  my  vain  lips  greet 
This  mighty  Lord,  whose  eyes  I  fear  to  meet  P 

My  soul,  will  He,  in  sooth,  heed  word  of  ouraP  " 

"  Master  and  king  and  tenderest  comforter 
Is  He,  who  loveth  heather-flower  and  bird, 
Blue  sky,  sweet  sunshine,  and  least  things  that  be  ! 
No  meanest  soul  but  He  hath  died  for  her — 
No  faintest  prayer  but  this  Crowned  One  hath  heard — 
Love  is  His  name,  love  only  asketh  He ! " 

EVELTN  PyKK- 

Le 


iooglc 


\ 


(    289    ) 


JUNE  IN  THE  FAMINE  YEAB.tf.\ 
By  John  Mitchel. 

AGAIN  the  great  Sun  stands  high  at  noon  above  the  greenest 
Island  that  lies  within  his  ken  on  all  the  broad  Zodiac  road 
he  travels  ;  and  his  glory,  "  like  God's  own  head,"  will  soon  blaze 
forth  from  the  solstitial  tower.  Once  more,  also — even  in  this 
June  month  of  the  rueful  year — the  trees  have  clothed  themselves 
in  their  wonted  pomp  of  leafy  umbrage,  and  the  warm  air  is 
trembling  with  the  music  of  ten  thousand  thousand  singing-birds, 
and  the  great  All-nourishing  Earth  has  arrayed  herself  in  robes 
of  glorious  green — the  greener  for  all  the  Dead  she  has  laid  to 
rest  within  her  bosom. 

What !  alive  and  so  bold,  0  Earth  ! 

Art  thou  not  over  bold  P 

What !  leapest  thou  forth  as  of  old, 
In  the  light  of  thy  morning  mirth  ? 

Why,  we  thought  that  the  end  of  the  world  was  at  hand ;  we 
never  looked  to  see  a  bright  genial  summer,  a  bright  rigorous 
winter  again.  To  one  who  has  been  pent  up  for  months,  labouring 
with  brain  and  heart,  in  the  panic-stricken  city,  haunted  by  the 
shadow  of  death,  and  has  heard  from  afar  the  low  wailing  moan 
of  his  patient,  perishing  brothers  borne  in  upon  every  gale,  black 
"Visions  of  the  night  might  well  come  swarming :  to  his  dulled  eye 
a  pall  might  visibly  spread  itself  over  the  empyrean,  to  his  weary 
ear  the  cope  of  Heaven  might  ring  from  pole  to  pole  with  a  muffled 
peal  of  Doom.  Can  such  swinkt  labourer  believe  that  days  will  ever 
be  wholesome  any  more,  or  nights  ambrosial  as  they  were  wont  to 
be  ? — for  is  not  the  Sun  in  sick  eclipse  and  like  to  die,  and  hangs 

*  To  the  recent  discussion  in  The  Freeman's  Journal,  concerning  "  The 
Hundred  Best  Irish  Books,"  Judge  O'Hagan  contributed  a  long  and  valuable 
letter,  which  ends  with  these  words.  "  There  is  a  paper  in  The  Nation,  by 
Mitchel,  written  in  the  despairing  time  of  the  famine  of  1847,  to  which  for 
beauty  of  description  and  depth  of  pathos  I  hardly  know  an  equal  It  is 
difficult  to  read  it  without  .tears." 

This  high  testimony  sent  us  in  search  of  the  essay  of  twice  •'  twenty 
golden  years  ago ; "  and  we  have  deemed  it  right  to  share  our  happiness  with 
those  for  whom  such  a  search  is  impossible. — Ed.  I.  M. 

Vol.  xiv.  No.  156.    June,  1886.  Digitized  by  GoO^fe 


290  June  in  the  Famine  Tear. 

there  not  upon  the  corner  of  the  Moon  a  vaporous  drop  profound, 
shedding  plague  and  blight,  and  the  blackness  of  darkness  over 
all  the  world  P 

Not  so,  heavy-laden  labourer  in  the  seed  field  of  Time.  Sow 
diligently  what  grain  thou  hast  to  sow,  nothing  doubting ;  for 
indeed  there  shall  be  hereafter,  as  of  old,  genial  showers  and  ripen- 
ing suns,  and  harvests  shall  whiten,  and  there  shall  verily  be  living 
men  to  reap  them,  be  it  with  sword  or  sickle.  The  Sun  is  not  yet 
turned  into  darkness,  nor  the  Moon  into  blood ;  neither  is  the 
abomination  of  desolation  spoken  of  by  Jeremy  the  Prophet  yet 
altogether  come  to  pass.  Heaven  and  earth  grow  not  old,  as  thou 
and  thy  plans  and  projects  and  speculations  will  all  most  assuredly 
do.  Here  have  you  been  gnawing  your  own  heart  all  winter,  about 
the  "state  of  the  country,"  about  a  railway  bill,  about  small 
rating  districts,  or  about  large ; — casting  about  for  means  to  main- 
tain your  own  paltry  position ;  or  else  perhaps  devising  schemes, 
fpoor  devUJJfor  the  regeneration  of  your  country,  and  dreaming 
tEat  in  your  own  peculiar  committee,  clique,  confederacy,  caucus, 
council,  conclave,  or  cabal,  lay  Ireland's  last  and  only  hope ! — 
until  you  are  nearly  past  hope  yourself — until  foul  i 
creeping  over  your  Light  of  life,  and  insanity  is  \ 
parietal  bone.  Apparently  you  will  be  driven  to  this  \ 
— to  commit  suicide,  or  else,  with  a  desperate  rush,  to  : 
country,  leaving  the  spirits  of  evil,  and  the  whole  rout 
the  first  running  stream. 

We  advise  the  latter  course  :  all  the  powers  of  Nat 
and  conjure  thee  to  it :  every  blushing  evening 
ward  %  every  blue  morning  sends  its  Favonian  airs  to  i 
out  in  thy  study  and  fan  thy  cheek,  and  tell  thee  over 
whispering  woods,  what  banks  of  breathing  field-floi 
heathy  hills  fragrant  with  bog-myrtle  and  all  the  ~~ 
moors,  what  tracts  of  corn  and  waving  meadows, 
wandered  before  they  came  to  mix  with  the  foul  city-a 
dim  with  coal-smoke  and  the  breath  of  multitudinous  scon 
On  such  blue  morning,  to  us,  lying  wistfully  dreaming  ^K  eyes 
wide  open,  rises  many  a  vision  of  scenes  that  we  know  to  be  at 
this  moment  enacting  themselves  in  far-off  lonely  glens  we  wot  of. 
Ah !  there  is  a  green  nook,  high  up  amidst  the  foldings  of  certain 
granite  mountains,  forty  leagues  off  and  more,  and  there  is  gur- 
gling through  it,  murmuring  and  flashing  in  the  sun,  a  little  stream 
clear  as  crystal, — the  mystic  song  of  it,  the  gushing  freshness  of 
it,  are  even  now  streaming  cool  through  our  adust  and  too  cineri- 


Digitized  by 


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June  in  the  Famine  Tear.  291 

# 

tious  brain ;  and,  clearly  as  if  present  in  the  body,  we  seek  the 

gray  rock  that  hangs  over  one  of  its  shallow  pools,  where  the  sun- 
rays  are  broken  by  the  dancing  water  into  a  network  of  tremulous 
golden  light  upon  the  pure  sand  that  forms  its  basin ;  and  close  by, 
with  quivering  leaves  and  slender  stem  of  silver,  waves  a  solitary 
birch-tree :  and  the  mountains  stand  solemn  around,  and  by  the 
heather-bells  that  are  breaking  from  their  sheaths  everywhere 
under  your  steps,  you  know  that  soon  a  mantle  of  richest  imperial 
purple  will  be  spread  over  their  mighty  shoulders  and  envelope 
them  to  the  very  feet.  Lie  down  upon  the  emerald  sward  that 
banks  this  little  pool,  and  gaze  and  listen.  Through  one  gorge 
that  breaks  the  mountain  mass  to  the  right  hand,  you  see  a  vast 
cultivated  plain,  with  trees  and  fields  and  whitened  houses,  stretch- 
ing away  into  the  purple  distance,  studded  here  and  there  with 
lakes  that  gleam  like  mirrors  of  polished  silver.  Look  to  the  left, 
through  another  deep  valley,  and, — lo  !  the  blue  Western  Sea ! 
And  aloft  over  all,  over  land  and  sea,  over  plain  and  mountain, 
Tock  and  river,  go  slowly  floating  the  broad  shadows  of  clouds, 
rising  slowly  from  the  showery  south,  borne  in  the  lap  of  the  soft, 
wind,  slowly  climbing  the  blue  dome  by  the  meridian 
;  the  path  of  the  sun,  nimbus  after  nimbus,  cirrus  and 
every  other  cloud  after  his  kind,  each  flinging  his 
as  he  passes,  and  then  majestically  melting  off 
at  battalions  and  broad- winged  hosts  of  cloud  are 
have  we  lain  but  two  hours,  and  there  have  been 
oming  upward  from  behind  the  wind,  continually 
rard  beyond  the  northern  horizon,  such  wondrous 
led-up  mountains  of  vapour  as  would  shed  another 
luge  and  quench  the  stars,  if  the  floodgates  were  once 
I  the  windows  of  heaven  opened — yet  this  fragrant,  soft- 
buthern  gale  bears  them  up  bravely  on  its  invisible 
Land  softly  winnows  them  on  their  destined  way.  They 
f&ission ; — they  are  going  to  build  themselves  up,  some- 
rer  the  Hebrides,  into  a  huge  many-towered  Cumulostra- 
to-morrow  or  the  day  after  will  come  down  in  thunder 
and  storm,  and  hissing  sheets  of  gray  rain,  sweeping  the  Sound 
of  Mull  with  their  trailing  skirt,  and  making  the  billows  of  Cor- 
rievreckan  seethe  and  roar  around  his  cliffs  and  caves.  Ben 
Oruachan,  with  his  head  wrapped  in  thick  night,  will  send  down 
Awe  river  in  raging  spate,  in  a  tumult  of  tawny  foam ;  and  Mor- 
ven  shall  echo  through  all  his  groaning  woods. 

But  one  cannot  be  everywhere  at  once.    We  are  not  now 


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292  June  in  the  Famine  Tear. 

among  the  western  Isles,  buffetting  a  summer-storm  in  the  Sound 
of  Mull ;  but  here  in  this  green  nook,  amongst  our  own  Irish  granite- 
mountains,  at  our  feet  the  clear  poppling  water,  over  our  head  the- 
delicate  birch-leaves  quivering  in  the  warm  June  air ;  and  the  far- 
off  sea  smooth  and  blue  as  a  burnished  sapphire.  Let  the  cloud- 
hosts  go  and  fulfil  their  destiny ;  and  let  us,  with  open  eye  and 
ear  and  soul,  gaze  and  listen.  Not  only  are  mysterious  splendours- 
around  us,  but  mysterious  song  gushes  forth  above  us  and  beneath 
us.  In  this  little  brook  alone  what  a  scale  of  notes  !  from  where- 
the  first  faint  tinkle  of  it  is  heard  far  up  as  it  gushes  from  the 
heart  of  the  mountain,  down  through  countless  cascades,  and  pools,, 
and  gurgling  rapids,  swelling  and  growing  till  it  passes  our  grassy 
couch  and  goes  on  its  murmuring  way  singing  to  the  sea :  but  this 
is  only  one  of  the  instruments.  Hark  !  the  eloquent  Wind,  that 
comes  sighing  up  the  valley,  and  whispering  with  the  waving 
fern !  And  at  intervals,  comes  from  above  or  beneath,  you  know 
not  which,  the  sullen  croak  of  a  solitary  raven,  without  whose 
hoarse  bass  you  never  find  Nature's  mountain  symphony  complete  r 
— and  we  defy  you  to  say  why  the  obscene  fowl  sits  there  and 
croaks  upon  his  gray  stone  for  half  a  day,  unless  it  is  that  Nature- 
puts  him  in  requisition  to  make  up  her  orchestra,  as  the  evil  beast 
ought  to  be  proud  to  do.  And  hark  again !  the  loud  hum  of' 
innumerable  insects,  first  begotten  of  the  Sun,  that  flit  amongst 
the  green  heather-stalks  and  sing  all  their  summer-life  through : — 
and  then,  if  you  listen  beyond  all  that,  you  hear,  faintly  at  first  as- 
the  wierd  murmur  in  a  wreathed  shell,  but  swelling  till  it  almost 
overwhelms  all  the  other  sounds,  the  mighty  voice  of  the  distant 
Sea.  For  it  is  a  peculiarity  ever  of  this  Earth-music  that  you  can 
separate  every  tone  of  it,  untwist  every  strand  of  its  linked  sweet- 
ness, and  listen  to  that  and  dwell  upon  it  by  itself.  You  may  shut 
your  senses  to  all  save  that  far-off  ocean  murmur  until  it  fills  your 
ear  as  with  the  roar  and  the  rush  of  ten  thousand  tempests,  and 
you  can  hear  the  strong  billows  charging  against  every  beaked' 
promontory  from  pole  to  pole ;  or  you  may  listen  to  the  multitu- 
dinous insect  hum,  till  it  booms  painfully  upon  your  ear-drum,  and 
you  know  that  here  is  the  mighty  hymn  or  spiritual  song  of  Life,, 
as  it  surges  ever  upward  from  the  abyss  :  louder,  louder,  it  booms, 
into  your  brain, — oh,  Heavens!  it  is  the  ground-tone  of  that 
thunder-song  wherein  the  Earth  goes  singing  in  her  orbit  among 
the  stars.  Yes,  such  and  so  grand  are  the  separate  parts  of  this- 
harmony;  but  blend  them  all  and  consider  what  a  diapason!1 
Cathedral  organs  of  all  stops,  and  instruments  of  thousand  strings*. 


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June  in  the  Famine  Tear.  293 

• 
and  add  extra-additional  keys  to  your  pianofortes,  and  sweetest 

silver  flutes,  and  the  voices  of  men  and  of  angels ;  all  these,  look 
you,  all  these,  and  the  prima  donnas  of  all  sublunary  operas,  and 
the  trills  of  a  hundred  Swedish  Nightingales,  have  not  the  com- 
pass, nor  the  flexibility,  nor  the  pathos,  nor  the  loudness,  nor  the 
sweetness  required  for  the  execution  of  this  wondrous  symphony 
among  the  hills : — 

11  Loud,  as  from  numbers  without  number,  sweet 
As  of  blest  voices  uttering  joy."— — 

Loud  and  high  as  the  hallelujahs  of  choiring  angels — yet  withal 
what  a  trance  of  Silence!  Here  in  this  mountain  dell,  all  the 
while  we  lie,  breathes  around  such  a  solemn  overpowering  stillness, 
that  the  rustle  of  an  unfolding  heath-bell,  tftO_  ^ftyr  -breaks  it 
offensively ;  and  if  you  listen  near  enough-+b£  Heavenjj  you  can 
hear  the  throb  of  your  own  pulse.  For  indeed  the  divine  Silence 
also  is  a  potent  instrument  of  that  eternal  harmony,  and  beara 
melodious  part. 

"  Such  concord  is  in  Heaven !  "     Yea,  and  upon  the  Earth  too,. 
if  only  toe,  we  who  call  ourselves  the  beauty  of  the  world  and 
paragon  of  animals,  did  not  foully  mar  it.     Out  of  a  man's  heart 
proceed  evil  thoughts ;  out  of  his  mouth  come  revilings  and  bitter- 
ness and  all  evil- speaking.   In  us,  and  not  elsewhere,  lies  the  fatal 
note  that  jars  all  the  harmonies  of  the  universe,  and  makes  them 
like  sweet  bells  jangled  out  of  tune,  rwho  will  show  us  a  way  to- 
escape  from  ourselves  and  from  one  another  P  I  Even  you,  reader ! 
whom  we  have  invited  up  into  this  mountain,  we  begin  to  abhor 
you  in  our  soul :  you  are  transfigured  before  us— your  eyes  are 
become  as  the  eyes  of  an  evil  demon — and  now  we  know  that  thia  \ 
gushing  stream  of  living  water  could  not  in  a  lifetime  wash  away  I 
the  iniquity  from  the  chambers  of  thine  heart ;  the  Arch-chemist  ■ 
Sun  could  not  burn  it  out  of  thee.     For  know,  reader !  thou  hast   ! 
a  devil ;  it  were  better  thy  mother  had  not  borne  thee ;  and  almost 
we  are  impelled  to  murder  thee  where  thou  liest. 

"  Poor  human  nature !  Poor  human  nature !  "  So  men  are 
accustomed  to  cry  out  when  there  is  talk  of  any  meanness  or  weak- 
ness committed,  especially  by  themselves :  and  they  seem  to  make 
no  doubt  that  if  we  could  only  get  well  rid  of  our  poor  human 
nature,  we  should  get  on  much  more  happily.  Yet  human  nature- 
is  not  the  worst  element  that  enters  into  our  composition ; — there- 
is  also  a  large  diabolic  ingredient,— also,  if  we  would  admit  it,  a 
vast  admixture  of  the  brute,  especially  the  donkey  nature ; — and 


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1294  June  in  the  Famine  Tear. 

• 
then,  also,  on  the  other  hand,  some  irradiation  of  the  godlike,  and 
by  that  only  is  mankind  redeemed. 

For  the  sake  whereof  we  forgive  thee,  comrade;  and  will 
forbear  to  do  thee  a  mischief  wjuvr^tliA  present  occasion^  But  note 
well  how  the  very  thought  of  all  these  discords  has  silenced,  or 
made  inaudible  to  us,  all  those  choral  songs  of  earth  and  sky.  We 
listen,  but  there  is  silence,  mere  common  silence :  it  is  no  use 
•crying  encore !  either  the  performers  are  dumb,  or  we  are  stone 
•deaf.  Moreover,  as  evening  comes  on,  the  grass  and  heath  grow 
somewhat  damp,  and  one  may  get  cold  in  his  human  nature.  Rise, 
then,  and  we  will  show  you  the  way  through  the  mountains  to 
eeaward,  where  we  shall  come  down  upon  a  little  cluster  of  seven 
or  eight  cabins ;  in  one  of  which  cabins,  two  summers  ago,  we 
supped  sumptuously  on  potatoes  and  salt  with  the  decent  man  who 
lives  there,  and  the  black-eyed  woman-of-the-house,  and  five 
small  children.  We  had  a  hearty  welcome,  though  the  fare  was 
poor ;  and  as  we  -  toasted  our  potatoes  in  the  greeshaugh,  our  ears 
•drank  in  the  honey-sweet  tones  of  the  well-beloved  Gaelic.  If  it 
were  only  to  hear,  though  you  did  not  understand,  mothers  and 
children  talking  together  in  their  own  blessed  Irish,  you  ought  to 
betake  you  to  the  mountains  every  summer.  The  sound  of  it 
is  venerable,  majestic,  almost  sacred.  You  hear  in  it  the  tramp  of 
•clans,'  the  wise  judgments  of  Brehons,  the  songs  of  Bards.  There 
is  no  name  for  "modern  enlightenment"  in  Irish,  no  word  cor- 
responding with  "  the  masses,"  or  with  "  reproductive  labour :  " 
in  short,  the  "nineteenth  century"  would  not  know  itself, 
•could  not  express  itself  in  Irish.  For  the  which  let  all  men 
bless  the  brave  old  tongue,  and  pray  that  it  may  never  fall 
silent  by  the  hills  and  streams  of  holy  Ireland, — never  until 
long  after  the  great  nineteenth  century  of  centuries  with  its 
-"  enlightenment "  and  its  "  paupers  "  shall  be  classed  in  its  true 
category,  "  the  darkest  of  all  the  Dark  Ages." 

As  we  come  down  towards  the  roots  of  the  mountain,  you  may 
feel,  loading  the  evening  air,  the  heavy  balm  of  hawthorn  blossoms : 
here  are  whole  thickets  of  white-mantled  hawthorn,  every  mystic 
tree  (save  us  all  from  fairy  thrall !)  smothered  with  snow-white 
flowers  and  showing  like  branching  coral  in  the  South  Pacific. 
And  be  it  remembered  that  never  in  Ireland,  since  the  last  of  her 
Chiefs  sailed  away  from  her,  did  that  fairy  tree  burst  into  such, 
luxuriant  beauty  and  fragrance  as  this  very  year.  The  evening, 
too,  is  delicious :  the  golden  sunset  has  deepened  into  crimson, 
over  the  sleeping  sea,  as  we  draw  near  the  hospitable  cottages : 


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June  in  the  Famine  Tear.  295 

almost  you  might  dream  that  you  beheld  a  vision  of  the  Connaught 
•of  the  thirteenth  century,  for  that — 

"  The  clime  indeed  is  a  clime  to  praise, 
The  clime  is  Erin's,  the  green  and  bland : 
And  this  is  the  time — these  be  the  days 
Of  Cahal  Mor  of  the  Wine-red  Hand  " 

<Jahal  Mor,  in  whose  days  both  land  and  sea  were  fruitful,  and  the 
yeanlings  of  the  flocks  were  doubled,  and  the  horses  champed 
yellow  wheat  in  their  mangers. 

But  why  do  we  not  see  the  smoke  curling  from  those  lowly 
^chimneys  P — And  surely  we  ought  by  this  time  to  scent  the  well- 
known  aroma  of  the  turf  fires.  But  what  (may  Heaven  be  about 
us  this  night !) — what  reeking  breath  of  hell  is  this  oppressing  the 
•air,  heavier  and  more  loathsome  than  the  smell  of  death  rising 
from  the  fresh  carnage  of  a  battle-field  P  Oh,  misery !  had  we 
forgotten  that  this  was  the  Famine  Tear  ?  And  we  are  here  in 
the  midst  of  one  of  those  thousand  Golgothas,  that  border  our 
island  with  a  ring  of  death  from  Cork  harbour  all  round  to  Lough 
Foyle.  There  is  no  need  of  inquiries  here,  no  need  of  words ; 
the  history  of  this  little  society  is  plain  before  us.  Yet  we  go 
iorward,  though  with  sick  hearts  and  swimming  eyes,  to  examine 
the  Place  of  Skulls  nearer.  There  is  a  horrible  silence ;  grass 
.grows  before  the  doors ;  we  fear  to  look  into  any  door,  though 
they  are  all  open  or  off  the  hinges ;  for  we  fear  to  see  yellow 
•chapless  skeletons  grinning  there;  but  our  footfalls  rouse  two 
lean  dogs,  that  run  from  us  with  doleful  howling,  and  we  know 
by  the  felon  gleam  in  their  wolfish  eyes,  how  they  have  lived, 
after  their  masters  died.  We  walk  amidst  the  houses  of  the 
Dead,  and  out  at  the  other  side  of  the  cluster,  and  there  is  not  one 
where  we  dare  to  enter.  We  stop  before  the  threshold  of  our  host 
•of  two  years  ago,  put  our  head,  with  eyes  shut,  inside  the  door- 
jamb,  and  say  with  shaking  voice  "  God  save  all  here !  " — No 
■answer — ghastly  silence,  and  a  mouldy  stench,  as  from  the  mouth 
of  burial-vaults.  Ah !  they  are  all  dead ;  they  are  all  dead ;  the 
strong  man  and  the  fair  dark-eyed  woman,  and  the  little  ones, 
with  their  liquid  Gaelic  accents  that  melted  into  music  for  us  two 
years  ago ;  they  shrunk  and  withered  together,  until  their  voices 
dwindled  to  a  rueful  gibbering,  and  they  hardly  knew  one  another's 
faces,  but  their  horrid  eyes  scowled  on  each  other  with  a  cannibal 
.glare.  We  know  the  whole  story ; — the  father  was  on  a  "  public 
work/'  and  earned  the  sixth  part  of  what  would  have  maintained 

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296  June  in  the  Famine  Tear. 

his  family,  which  was  not  always  duly  paid  him ;  but  still  it  kept 
them  half  alive  for  three  months,  and  so  instead  of  dying  in 
December  they  died  in  March.  And  the  agonies  of  those  three 
months  who  shall  tell  P — the  poor  wife  wasting  and  weeping  over 
her  stricken  children, — the  heavy-laden  weary  man,  with  black 
night  thickening  around  him — thickening  within  him,  feeling  his 
own  arm  shrink,  and  his  step  totter  with  the  cruel  hunger  that 
gnaws  away  his  life,  and  knowing  too  surely  that  all  this  will 
soon  be  over.  And  he  has  grown  a  rogue,  too,  on  those  public 
works:  with  roguery  and  lying  about  him,  roguery  and  lying 
above  him,  Re  has  begun  to  say  in  his  heart  that  there  is  no  i±oo£\f 
from  a  poorbut  honest  farmer  he  has  sunk  down  into  a  swindling 
sturdy  beggar :  for  him  there  is  nothing  firm  or  stable :  the  pillars 
of*  the  world  are  rocking  around  him :  "  the  Sun  to  him  is  dark 
and  silent,  as  the  Moon  when  she  deserts  the  night/'  Even  ferocity 
or  thirst  for  vengeance,  he  can  never  feel  again :  for  the  very 
blood  of  him  is  starved  into  a  thin,  chill  serum,  and  if  you  prick 
him  he  will  not  bleed.  Now,  he  can  totter  forth  no  longer,  and 
he  stays  at  home  to  die.  But  his  darling  wife  is  dear  to  him  no 
longer :  alas !  and  alas !  there  is  a  dull,  stupid  malice  in  their 
looks :  they  forget  that  they  had  five  children,  all  dead  weeks  ago 
and  flung  coffinless  into  shallow  graves :  nay,  in  the  frenzy  of 
their  despair  they  would  rend  one  another  for  the  last  morsel  in 
that  house  of  doom ;  and  at  last,  in  misty  dreams  of  drivelling 
idiocy,  they  die  utter  strangers. 

Oh !  Pity  and  Terror !  what  a  tragedy  is  here, — deeper,  darker 
than  any  bloody  tragedy  ever  yet  enacted  under  the  sun,  with  all 
its  dripping  daggers  and  sceptred  palls.  Who  will  compare  the 
fate  of  men  burned  at  the  stake,  or  cut  down  in  battle,  men  with 
high  hearts  and  the  pride  of  life  in  their  veins,  and  an  eye  to- 
look  up  to  heaven,  or  to  defy  the  slayer  to  his  face — who  will  com- 
pare it  with  this  i 


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THE  TOUCH  OF  A  MOTHER'S  HAND. 

4t  VOU  may  go  now  and  sit  by  his  bed, 
J-     Step  noiselessly  in,  and  silent  keep. 
Do  not  disturb  hiin ;  the  doctor  has  said 
It  may  be  death  if  you  break  his  sleep." 

"I  will  keep  most  still,  you  can  trust  me  to  go; 

I  can  nurse  him  better  than  any  one — 
Don't  think  me  ungrateful— your  kindness  I  koow; 

God  will  reward  you  for  what  you  have  done  1 " 

She  passed  through  the  ward  ;  and  jokes  and  mirth, 
And  murmurs  and  cries  of  anguish  cease ; 

And  there  came  a  calm,  such  as  falls  on  earth 
When  an  angel  speeds  on  a  mission  of  peace. 

Many  a  dying  one,  as  she  passed, 

To  bless  her  feebly  lifted  his  head ; 
And  she  came  where  a  young  soldier  lay  at  last, 

And  she  knelt  down  silently  by  his  bed. 

He  was  only  a  boy,  wounded  and  weak ; 

And  one  could  scarcely  discern,  in  truth, 
Whether  the  ruddy  hue  on  his  cheek 

Was  the  fever-flush,  or  the  flush  of  youth. 

As  she  knelt  by  his  bed,  on  the  oaken  floor, 
He  spoke  in  his  dreams  to  an  absent  one ; 

"  Lillie,  I  will  come  back  once  more, 

And  we  will  be  wed  when  the  war  is  done." 

Her  hand  on  his  forehead,  unthinking,  she  laid, 

As  his  feverish  face  she  gently  fanned; 
.And  the  dying  soldier,  awaking,  said  : 

"  That  feels  like  the  touch  of  my  mother's  hand." 

'  Then  around  the  ward  his  eyes  wildly  roam, 

Till  they  rest  on  a  pale  and  wrinkled  face — 
*  Mother !  w    u  My  child ! "   "I  knew  you  would  come ! 
And  she  clasped  her  boy  in  a  fond  embrace. 

"  And  so  the  romance  of  love  is  o'er ; 

When  I  am  gone,  you  must  bid  her  not  fret- 
Tell  her  to  think  of  me  no  more  ; 

Mother,  I  will  not  ask  you  to  forget. 


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298  The  Touch  of  a  Mother's  Hand. 

"  A  moment  since,  I  was  dreaming  of  home ; 

A  child  once  more,  1  lay  down  to  rest, 
And  I  thought  to  my  bedside  that  you  had  come 

And  blessed  me  as  you  often  blessed. 

"  I  wake  to  find  that  my  dream  is  true, 

And  that  oTer  many  a  weary  mile 
The  old  fond  love  has  guided  you 

To  see  your  boy  for  a  little  whiie. 

"  I  did  not  think  that  life  had  in  store 
For  me  such  an  exquisite  joy  as  this — 

To  feel  the  touch  of  your  hand  once  more, 
To  feel  on  my  brow  once  more  your  kiss. 

"  Then  rest  your  hand  on  my  fevered  brow ; 

Kiss  me  again — but  you  must  not  weep ; 
Smile  as  of  old — I  am  happy  now , 

Good-bye  for  awhile,  I  will  go  to  sleep. 

«'  Good-bye,  good-bye  I  I  am  reconciled ; " 
And  she  kissed  his  brow ;  "  but  'tis  hard  to  part ; 

Ah  !  do  not  blame  these  tears,  my  child, 
They  are  welling  up  from  a  mother's  heart." 

M  Good-bye,  good-bye  I  I  will  soon  awake 
Where  again  we  will  meet,  in  the  better  land." 

Then  he  slept :  'twas  the  sleep  that  nought  could  break- 
Not  even  the  touch  of  a  mother's  hand, 

Richard  E.  White. 
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MAUREEN   LACEY. 

BT  K08A  MTJLHOLLAND, 

AOTHOB  OF  H  TAORANT  T«M«8,"  "  XILLUTT,"  **  KABCILLA  OBACB,"  «TC,  ETC. 

CHAPTER  II. 

The  next  night  a  yellow  moon  hung  high  over  Bofin,  gilding  the* 
spars  of  the  Liverpool  trader,  rocking  still  in  the  harbour.  The* 
headlands  lay  like  good-natured  giants  smiling  in  their  dreams,  and 
an  ocean  of  silver  glimmered  out  of  the  obscurity  of  space  and 
washed  their  feet.  Along  the  road  to  the  North  Beach  a  man  was 
plodding  with  a  parcel  under  his  arm.  There  were  few  in  the 
island  who  would  walk  abroad,  alone,  once  the  night  had  set  in,  for 
the  spiritual  population  of  Bofin  is  said  to  outnumber  those  who 
are  counted  in  flesh  and  blood,  and  the  night  is  the  elfin  day.  Men 
and  women  shut  themselves  into  their  cabins  at  twilight  and  love 
not  solitary  walks.  But  Con  Lavelle  was  one  of  the  few.  It  is. 
customary  to  bring  a  friend  for  support  upon  the  mission  on  which 
he  was  bent.  Con  had  his  reasons  for  going  alone.  His  expedi- 
tion was  a  forlorn  one.  Why  should  another  behold  his 
defeat  P 

Con  Lavelle  had  loved  Maureen  Lacey  long.  Last  night  had 
shown  him  that  if  his  chance  were  not  speedily  improved,  it  would 
very  quickly  become  nothing.  The  Widow  Lacey  smiled  on  him 
he  knew,  for  she  reckoned  on  Con's  soft  nature  and  Con's  good  farm 
to  help  her  out  of  many  of  her  difficulties.  This  was  little,  however,, 
while  Maureen  was  cold.  Last  night  he  had  seen  her  melt  and 
brighten,  and  though  the  change,  he  knew,  had  not  been  wrought 
by  him,  his  heart  had  so  ached  at  her  more  than  wonted  beauty, 
that  he  could  not,  like  a  wise  man,  turn  his  face  the  other  way  and 
think  of  her  no  longer.  No,  he  would  have  his  chance  out.  He  would 
offer  her  his  love,  and  if  she  would  not  have  that,  he  would  bribe 
her  with  his  comfortable  house,  his  goodly  land,  and  help  and  pro- 
tection for  her  family.  If  Maureen  could  not  give  him  her  love,  he 
would  grieve ;  but,  if  Maureen  could  be  bought,  he  would  buy 
her. 

This  was  the  state  of  Con's  mind  when  he  lifted  the  Lacey* 
latch.    As  ever,  the  place  was  lighted  by  the  fire,  and  there  was  an 

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:300  Maureen  Lacey. 

air  of  hush  and  tidiness  within  that  betokened  expectation  of  some- 
thing unusual.  The  children  were  all  in  bed,  the  house  was  swept, 
the  bits  of  tins'  and  crockeries  were  all  straight  on  the  humble 
■dresser,  the  few  rude  chairs  were  ranged  with  precision  along  by 
the  walls.  Maureen's  stepmother  was  dozing  in  her  little  straw 
chair  in  the  warmest  corner.  Maureen  stood  on  the  hearth, 
in  her  work-a-day  crimson  petticoat  and  loose  bodice  of  print, 
with  the  blaze  playing  over  her  pretty  bare  feet,  not  yet 
spoiled  by  exposure,  and  deepening  the  rose  flush  on  her  cheeks, 
and  gilding  the  wilful  ripples  of  hair  that  would  creep  out  and 
keep  straying  about  her  forehead.  Twice  Maureen  had  slipped 
"  down  to  the  room,"  and  pressed  her  face  to  the  one  little  pane  of 
the  window,  and  peered  forth  at  the  night  without,  where  the  yellow 
moonlight  fell  rich  and  flat  on  the  rugged  causeway,  and  the 
silver  Atlantic  shifted  and  glimmered  between  the  grey  stonewalls 
of  the  neighbouring  cabins.  And  the  last  time  she  had  withdrawn 
frer  face  with  a  gesture  of  dismay.  This  was  not  the  shape  she 
wanted  to  see,  this  loose,  swinging  figure  coming  along  with  its 
awkward  shadow. 

Con  lifted  the  latch  and  came  in.  The  noise  wakened  the 
widow,  who  hailed  him  with  glad  surprise.  "What  can  bring 
him  to-night  again?"  flashed  through  the  minds  of  both  the 
women,  followed  also  by  the  same  surmise,  only  the  latter  was 
with  one  a  hope,  with  the  other  a  fear.  Maureen's  "  Save  ye, 
Con  !  "  was  only  a  feeble  echo  of  her  stepmother's  greeting,  wrung 
from  her  by  the  absolute  requirements  of  hospitality.  Curiosity 
was  quickly  allayed,  and  hope  and  fear  confirmed.  Advancing  to 
the  dresser  with  a  sheepish  air,  the  visitor  set  down  a  bottle  of 
whiskey,  pipes,  and  tobacco.  Thus  his  errand  was  at  once  declared. 
Con  Lavell  had  come  "  matchmaking." 

The  stepmother  rubbed  her  wasted  hands  with  delight.  "  You're 
welcome,  Con,  agra,  machree !  "  she  said.  "  Maureen,  set  out  the 
•table,  an'  fetch  the  glasses,  an'  fill  the  pipes." 

Maureen  did  as  she  was  bidden,  uncorked  the  bottle,  and 
handed  the  glass  and  kindled  pipe  to  her  mother,  all  with  a  set 
defiance  on  her  face,  which  did  not  escape  the  timorous  suitor. 

"  Ye'll  be  come  on  business,  Con  P  "  began  the  widow. 

"  Ay,"  said  Con,  blushing  and  fidgeting.  "  I  come,  Mrs. 
Lacey,  to  ask  yer  daughter  for  a  wife.  God  sees  I'll  make  her  as 
good  a  husband  as  iver  laid  all  he  had  in  a  girl's  lap  and  only  axed 
for  hersei'  in  return." 

"  It's  thrue  for  you,  Con  dear,"  said  the  stepmother,     "  Oh, 


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Maureen  Lacey.  301 

can'  ye  have  her  with  my  heart's  best  wish.   Come  down,  Maureen, 
-and  give  yer  han'  to  yer  husband." 

Maureen  had  been  standing,  pale,  over  in  the  shadows,  at  the 
•dresser.  Now  she  moved  down  to  the  hearth,  "  Not  my  husband," 
she  said,  "  an*  niver  my  husband.  In  my  heart  I'm  thankful  to 
ye,  Con  Lavelle,  for  thinkin'  kindly  of  a  poor  girl  like  me,  but  I 
•cannot  take  yer  offer." 

"  Good  Lord,  sioh  talk ! "  cried  the  widow,  enraged.  "  Don't 
mind  her,  Con,  asthore,  it's  only  a  way  girls  has,  likin'  to  keep 
themsel'8  high,  an'  small  blame  to  them  !  She'll  be  yours,  niver 
fear,  an*  willin'  an'  plased  on  her  weddin'-day." 

•'  Mother,"  said  Maureen, "  where's  the  use  of  talkin'  this  ways  ? 
Yer  not  my  God,  nor  my  Maker,  that  ye  have  a  right  to  han'  over 
my  soul  an*  body  to  this  man  or  that  man  again  my  will.  An' 
you,  Con  Lavelle,  yer  a  dacent  man,  an'  ye  wouldn't  be  for  takin' 
a  girl  to  yer  wife  that  had  her  heart  set  in  one  that  wasn't  you.  I'm 
a  pledged  wife,  an1  as  good  as  a  wife  this  minit  in  the  eyes  o'  the 
Almighty  above ;  an'  thrue  and  fast  1*11  stan1  to  my  word,  so  help 
me  Christ,  my  Saviour ! " 

Slowly,  and  with  a  stern  reverence  in  her  tone,  Maureen 
uttered  these  last  words,  her  eyes  on  the  ground  and  her 
'hands  squeezed  together.  Con  hung  his  head  and  hoped  no  more, 
:and  the  stepmother  rocked  herself  to  and  fro  in  her  feebleness, 
and  raged  with  disappointment. 

"  You  bould  hizzy,"  she  cried.  "  Oh,  you  bould,  shameless 
hizzy,  that's  been  decavin'  me  all  this  time !  Goin'  jiggin  to  yer 
dances  an'  makin'  yer  matches,  an'  throwin  dust  in  the  eyes  of 
the  poor  sickly  mother  at  home.  Oh,  you  bad,  onnatural 
*  daughter ." 

"  Aisy,  aisy,  Mrs.  Lacey,"  put  in  soft-hearted  Con.  4<  Throth 
I'll  not  listen  to  that  from  ye.  If  Maureen  cannot  like  me,  I'll 
tell  the  truth  o'  her.  She's  the  good  hard-workin'  daughter  to 
you,  whatever ! " 

"  Hould  yer  tongue ! "  shrieked  the  passionate  woman.  "  What 
do  you  know  about  it  P  Troth  ye  take  yer  answer  kindly.  It's 
always  the  likes  o'  a  soft  fool  like  you  that  gets  the  worst  of  it 
while  the  world's  goin'  roun'.  Oh,  wirra,  wirra,  that  iver  I 
should  rear  sich  a  daughther !  " 

Maureen  stepped  up  to  Con  and  put  out  her  hand.     "  I  thank 

ye,"  she  said,  eagerly,  "  for  puttin'  in  that  kind  word  for  me.     I 

have  thried  to  do  her  biddin',  an'  God  sees  it's  her  own  fault  that  it's 

.come  to  this  so  soon.    I'm  rale  grateful  to  ye,  Con,  an'  if  I  could 

Vol.  xiv.  No.  156.  23  i 

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302  Maureen  Lacey. 

make  two  women  o'  myself  wan  o'  me  should  be  yer  wife.    Bern* 
only  wan,  I  must  go  afther  my  heart." 

Big  tears  swelled  up  in  Con's  eyes  as  he  shook  her  hand  and 
let  it  drop.     "  It's  thrue  for  you,  Maureen/'  was  all  he  said. 

"  Oh ! "  cried  the  stepmother,  fiercely—"  oh !  if  I  could  just 
get  my  tongue  about  that  limb  of  the  divil,  Mike  Tiernay " 

"  God  save  all  here !  "  said  a  hearty  voice,  as  the  latch  was. 
lifted,  and  Mike  himself  stood  amongst  them.  Maureen,  blushing, 
fell  back  into  the  shadows  and  left  the  battle  to  him. 

"  Lend  us  yer  arm,  Con,"  cried  the  stepmother,  trying  to  stand. 
"  Begone !  "  she  shrieked,  shaking  her  puny  fist  at  Mike,  "  begone 
from  my  house,  you  thief,  you  beggar !  " 

"  Troth,  yer  not  well,  Mrs.  Lacey,  dear,"  said  Mike,  "yeimot- 
well  at  all.  An'  it's  Con's  fault  here  for  givin'  you  too  sthrong  a 
taste  o'  this  fine  whiskey  o'  his,  an'  you  so  wake  about  the  head* 
Sit  down  now,  Mrs.  Lacey,  asthore,  an'  rest  yersel'  a  bit,"  he  went 
on  coaxingly,  slipping  her  hand  from  Con's  arm,  settling  her  in 
her  chair,  and  drawing  a  seat  confidentially  beside  her.  "  An* 
f eth  ye  may  make  yer  mind  aisy  about  thieves  an'  beggars,  for  there- 
isn't  a  sowl  of  sich  a  crew  in  the  house  at  all :  sorra  wan ;  nor  out 
bye  neither,  for  the  moon's  as  bright  as  daylight,  an9 1  couldn't 
miss  but  see  them  if  they  were  there." 

All  this  was  poured  forth  in  Mike's  own  rolling,  coaxing,, 
devil-may-care  tone,  completely  drowning  any  attempt  of  the 
widow's  to  finish  her  interrupted  volley  of  abuse.  She  sat  grasp- 
ing the  sides  of  her  chair,  in  silence,  and  mentally  scratching  his. 


"  Oh,  the  imperence  of  ye !  "  she  hissed  between  her  teeth,  at 
last,  "  to  think  to  come  round  me  with  your  blarney.  I  know  yer 
errand " 

"  You  do,  Mrs.  Lacey  P  "  said  Mike,  "  you  know  that  Mau- 
reen  "  here  his   eyes  deepened  and   flashed,    and  a    smile 

overspread  his  brave  face  as  he  glanced  at  a  shadowy  corner  op- 
posite, "  that  Maureen  has  promised  me  her  own  sel'  for  a  wife  gin 
this  day  year  when  I  come  home  from  my  voyage  ?  Ye  ve  heard 
of  the  sthrange  vessel  that's  been  lyin'  below  all  week.  Well,  the 
captain  is  a  dacent  man,  an'  he's  offered  to  take  me  with  him  in 
his  ship,  and  promised  to  put  me  in  a  way  of  earnin'  in  a  year  as. 
much  money  as  'U  do  all  I'll  want  it  to  do.  On  this  day  twel'month 
I'll  come  back  a  well-to-do  man,  plase  God,  an'  I'll  buy  the  best 
holdin'  in  Bofin,  save  an'  exceptin'  Con  Lavelle's  here.  Maureen 
has  give  me  her  word  to  wait  for  me.  An'  that's  my  errand,  ta 
ell  ye  all  this  that's  arranged  betune  us." 

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Maureen  Lacey.  303 

This  information  of  Mike's  threw  a  light  on  the  widow's  per- 
plexity, and  the  storminess  of  her  wrath  became  somewhat 
calmed. 

u  Ye'll  niver  come  back/'  she  said,  with  a  sneer,  u  wanst  yer 
off  out  of  Bofin  with  yer  blarneyin'  tongue  an'  yer  rovin'  ways, 
aorra  fnt  will  ye  iver  set  in  it  again." 

"Don't  say  that,  Mrs.  Lacey,"  said  Mike,  gravely.  "You 
mnsn't  say  that,  an'  me  ready  to  swear  the  conthrairy." 

"  Ay,"  she  sneered  again ;  "  the  likes  o'  ye'll  swear  to  any- 
thing ;  but  who'll  heed  ye  P  I  say  it  would  be  better  for  Maureen 
to  take  up  at  wanst  with  a  dacent  man  like  Con  Lavelle  there, 
sitting  peaceable  at  home  on  his  farm,  than  to  be  waitin'  for  years 
till  a  rover  like  yon  takes  the  notion  to  turn  up  again  from  the 
other  ind  o'  the  world.     Which  ye  niver  will." 

"  Well,  Mrs.  Lacey,"  said  Mike,  drawing  himself  up,  and 
speaking  solemnly,  "  III  give  Maureen  her  lave,  full  and  free,  to 
marry  Con  Lavelle  come  this  day  year,  if  I  be  not  here  to  claim 
her  first  myselV 

"  Ay,"  said  Maureen,  looking  suddenly  out  from  the  shadows ; 
"  an  I'll  give  my  word  full  and  free  to  marry  Con  Lavelle  come 
this  day  year  if  Mike  be  not  here  to  claim  me  first." 

"  Ye'll  swear  that  P  "  said  the  stepmother. 

"  Ay,  we'll  swear  it  both  if  you  like,"  said  Mike,  smiling 
proudly  down  on  Maureen. 

"  He's  ready  enough  to  han'  you  over,  Maureen,"  said  the 
widow,  with  another  of  her  sneers.  "  Ye'll  be  'feared  to  do  the 
same  by  him,  I'm  thinkin'." 

Maureen  made  no  reply,  but,  slipping  her  band  out  of  Mike  s 
went  over  to  the  dresser  and  reached  up  for  something,  to  a  little 
cracked  cup  on  the  shelf. 

"  Here's  two  rings,"  she  said,  coming  back  to  the  hearth, 
"  wan  I  got  on  the  last  fair  day,  an'  the  other  I  got  last  fright  in 
Biddy  Prendergast's  cake.  There's  for  you,  Con,  an'  there's  for 
you,  Mike.  Wan  o'  you  men  '11  put  wan  o'  them  rings  on  my 
finger  come  this  day  year ;  Con,  if  I'm  left  for  him ;  Mike,  if  he's 
home  in  time.  This  I  swear,  mother,  in  spite  o'  yer  tants,  an'  by 
the  Blessed  Vargin  I'll  keep  my  oath  !  " 

A  silence  fell  on  the  group.  The  blaze  of  the  fire  dropped 
down,  and  a  shadow  covered  the  hearth.  A  momentary  cloud 
passed  over  Mike's  proud  face  in  the  flush  of  its  rash  'happy  confi- 
dence. Was  it  a  whispered  reminder  of  the  perils  that  beset  the 
sailor  abroad  on  the  seas — of  storms,   of  great  calms,  of  ships 

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304  Maureen  Lacey. 

drifted  out  of  their  tracks  P  But  Mike  was  not  one  to  fret  his 
mind  about  shadows. 

"Ye'U  dhrink  to  that  all  round  P"  said  Con  Lavelle, 
presently. 

"Ay,  we'll  dhrink  to  't,"  said  Mike,  gaily;  and  Maureen 
mending  the  fire,  a  jovial  glow  lit  up  the  house  once  more. 

Con  Lavelle  had  become  a  different  man  within  the  last  few 
minutes.  His  dejected  face  was  kindled,  and  his  brawny  hand 
shook  as  he  poured  the  whiskey  into  the  glasses. 

"  Here's  to  Maureen's  happy  weddin'  on  this  day  year ! "  he 
said,  knocking  the  glass  against  his  teeth,  as  he  raised  the  spirit  to 
his  lips.  "  Amen,  amen,"  went  round  in  reply,  and  matters  being 
thus  concluded,  the  two  men  presently  took  their  leave,  and  quitted 
the  cabin  together. 

"Look  ye  here,  Mike  Tiernay,"  said  Con  Lavelle,  stopping 
short,  as  the  two  walked  along  in  the  moonlight,  "  I'll  give  you 
wan  warnin'  afore  I  part  ye.  I  have  loved  Maureen  Lacey  since 
iver  she  was  able  to  toddle.  Seem  she  liked  ye  the  best,  I  would 
not  have  made  nor  meddl't  betune  ye.  But  with  yer  own,  an'  her 
own  free  will,  she  took  an'  oath  to-night,  afore  my  face,  an' 
mind  I'll  make  her  stick  to  her  bargain.  Look  to  't  well,  an'  come 
home  for  yer  wife  in  time,  for  sorra  day,  nor  hour,  nor  minit  o' 
grace  will  I  give  you,  if  so  it  falls  out  that  ye  fail  her  P  " 

Mike  Tiernay  drew  up  his  towering  figure,  and  looked  con- 
temptuously into  the  feverish  face  of  his  rival. 

"When  yer  axed  for  day,  or  hour,  or  minit  o'  grace,  Con 
Lavelle,"  he  said,  "  then  come  an'  give  me  yer  warnin's.  Ye  may 
wish  me  what  evil  ye  plase,  but  the  Almighty  himsel'  will  blow 
the  blast  that  '11  bring  me  o'er  the  seas  to  make  ruin  o'  yer  evil 
hopes.  I'm  lavin'  my  wife  in  His  hands,  an'  heed  me,  man,  ye 
shall  niver  touch  her !  " 

Shame  fell  on  Con  for  a  moment,  and  his  better  nature  was 
found. 

"  I  do  not  wish  ye  evil,  Mike  Tiernay,"  he  said,  sulkily,  "  but 
only  to  have  my  chance." 


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CHAPTER  III. 

Maureen's  year  of  trial  began  in  peace.  Her  stepmother's  tongue 
was  leas  harsh  than  usual,  and  Con  Lavelle  had  left  her  un- 
troubled. There  was  a  light  in  her  eye  as  she  faced  the  blast  of 
a  morning,  and  a  pride  in  her  step  as  she  moved  through  the 
house,  that  bade  defiance  to  all  external  powers  to  make  her  less 
happy  and  blest  than  she  was.  She  repaid  her  mother's  for- 
bearance with  extra  care  and  exertion.  Hard  work  was  play  to 
her  now.  Christmas  season  was  Midsummer- time.  Whistling 
winds  were  but  music  to  dance  to,  and  pelting  rains  like  the  light 
May  dew.  All  the  frost  of  her  nature  was  thawed.  She  laughed 
with  the  children  at  supper-time,  and  told  them  stories  when  her 
work  was  done.  Her  eyes  were  brighter,  and  her  lips  more  softly 
curled.  Her  words  to  all  were  less  scant  than  they  had  been,  and 
the  tone  of  her  voice  sweeter.  Her  days  went  quickly  past,  because 
every  task  that  she  wrought,  and  every  hour  that  she  filled, 
brought  her  nearer  to  next  Hallow  Eve.  Her  trust  in  Mike  was  as 
whole  as  her  trust  in  God. 

So  the  winter  passed,  and  the  months  of  early  spring,  and  then 
this  happy  phase  of  her  life  wore,  bit  by  bit,  away.  The  widow 
began  to  sigh,  and  cast  up  her  eyes  when  Mike  was  mentioned, 
and  Con  Lavelle  to  oome  dropping  in  in  the  lengthening  evenings 
to  smoke  his  pipe,  and  to  question  Mrs.  Lacey  concerning  her 
"  rumatics."  Maureen  pretended  to  take  no  notice,  only  went  to 
bed  earlier  of  nights  to  be  out  of  the  way,  gave  shorter  answers 
when  spoken  to,  and  began  to  creep  gradually  back  again  into  her 
old  reserved  self.  This  went  on  for  a  time,  and  then  the  step- 
mother began  to  speak  openly  of  Mike  as  a  deserter,  sneering  at 
Maureen  for  putting  her  faith  in  him,  or  congratulating  her  on 
having  won  a  thrifty  man  like  Con  Lavelle.  Still  Maureen  en- 
dured, going  steadily  on  with  her  work,  never  seeming  to  hear 
what  was  said,  nor  to  see  what  was  meant. 

Presently  Con  Lavelle  began  to  ohange  his  demeanour ;  growing 
regular  and  systematic  in  his  attentions ;  sending  boys  to  cut  her 
turf  and  carry  her  rack,  and  do  odd  rough  jobs  for  her  by  stealth. 
Her  stern  rejection  of  these  real  services  made  very  little  difference 
to  Con,  who  went  steadily  on  laying  siege  to  her  gratitude  in  a  number 
of  subtle  ways.  The  stepmother  grew  more  sickly ;  and  how  could 
Maureen,  who  had  little  to  give  her,  turn  Nan  Lavelle  from  the 
door,  when  she  came  smiling  in  of  an  evening  with  a  nice  fat 

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306  Maureen  Lacey. 

chicken  under  her  cloak,  or  a  morsel  of  mutton  for  broth  f  Or 
how  could  she  throw  in  the  fire  the  gay  new  nappikeen  bought  on 
the  last  fair  day,  which  the  widow  wore  tied  on  her  head,  and 
which  Con  had  not  dared  to  present  to  Maureen  P  Con  was  not 
bold,  but  sly.  He  did  nothing  that  Maureen  could  resent,  but  he 
kept  her  in  constant  remembrance  of  her  promise.  Often,  as  he 
smoked  his  pipe  at  his  farm-house  door  at  sunset,  he  would  slip 
out  a  little  brass  ring  from  his  pocket,  twirl  it  on  the  top  of  ftis 
own  huge  finger,  and  smile  at  the  vacant  Atlantic,  lying  sail-less 
and  sunny  before  him.     Why  should  Mike  Tiernay  return  P 

So  the  year  went  on,  and  October  came  round  again.  There 
was  much  speculation  in  the  island  as  to  how  it  would  go  with 
Maureen  Lacey.  Some  vowed  that  Mike  would  be  true  to  his 
time,  and  others  that  Maureen  ought  to  bless  her  stars  that  would 
leave  her  to  Con  Lavelle.  Of  Maureen  herself  the  gossips  could 
make  little.  "  He'll  come/'  was  all  she  would  say  in  answer  to 
hints,  and  inquiries.  As  the  end  of  the  month  drew  near,  public 
excitement  ran  high.  Men  made  bets,  and  kind-hearted  women 
said  prayers  for  Maureen.  Con  Lavelle  went  about  his  farm  with 
feverish  eyes  and  a  restless  foot,  whilst  in-doors  Nan  already  made 
rare  preparations.  At  the  North  Beach  the  stepmother  talked 
incessantly  about  the  wedding,  and  her  pride  that  a  daughter  of 
hers  should  be  mistress  of  Fawnmore  Farm.  As  the  days  narrowed 
in  about  her,  Maureen  struggled  hard  to  go  and  come  like  one 
who  was  deaf  and  blind.  She  made  ready  her  humble  trousseau, 
knitting  her  new  grey  stockings,  and  stitching  her  new  blue 
cloak,  bending  her  sharpened  face  over  her  work,  contradicting  no 
one,  and  questioning  no  one.  Neighbours  who  chanced  to  meet 
the  flash  of  her  eye  went  away  crossing  themselves.  People  began 
to  feel  afraid  of  Maureen  Lacey* 

At  last  Hallow  Eve  arrived.  Biddy  Prendergast  gave  another 
of  her  dances,  and  Peggy  Moran  figured  at  it,  as  the  bride  of  the 
young  man  from  America,  on  whom  she  had  bestowed  herself,  her 
three  cows,  and  her  two  feather-beds.  But  Con  Lavelle  and  his 
sister  Nan  were  busy  at  home,  making  ready  for  that  wedding  of 
the  morrow,  which  was  the  subject  of  eager  discussion  at  Biddy's 
tea-table  to-night.  The  wedding  feast  was  to  be  spread  at  Fawn- 
more,  and  many  guests  had  been  invited. 

It  was  a  rough  wild  night.  If  the  Bofiners  were  less  hardy 
a  race,  or  if  the  storm  had  commenced  in  its  violence  an  hour  or 
two  earlier,  Biddy  Prendergast  must  have  had  few  guests  at  her 
dance  that  Hallow  Eve.    About  eight  o'clock,  Nan  Lavelle ' 

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Mamtten  Looey.  307 

lending  over  her  pot-oven  inspecting  the  browning  of  her  cakes, 
and  Oon  was  nailing  up  a  fine  new  curtain  on  the  kitchen  window 
to  make  the  place  look  more  snug  than  usual.  The  wind  bellowed 
•down  the  chimney,  and  its  thunders  overhead  drowned  the  noise 
of  the  hammer,  and  the  sound  of  some  one  knocking  for  ad- 
mittance outside.  Suddenly  the  door  was  pushed  open,  and 
Maureen  Lacey  came  whirling  breathless  over  the  threshold, 
with  the  storm  driving  in  like  a  troop  of  fiends  let  loose  after 
her  heels.  Her  face  was  white  and  streamed  with  rain;  her 
dripping  hair  and  the  soaked  hood  of  her  cloak  were  dragged  back 
from  her  head  upon  her  shoulders.  She  tried  to  close  the  door 
behind  her,  but  could  not,  and  the  yelling  wind  kept  pouring  in, 
•dashing  everything  about  the  kitchen  as  though  the  place  were 
invaded  by  an  army  of  devils. 

"  God  save  us !  "  cried  Nan,  dropping  her  knife,  and  rushing  to 
ahut  the  door. 

"  Maureen !  "  said  Con,  with  a  blaze  of  surprise  on  his  face, 
•coming  eagerly  to  meet  her,  and  attempting  to  draw  the  wet  cloak 
-from  her  shoulders.  "  If  ye  had  any  word  to  say  to  me,  asthore, 
.ye  might  have  sent  one  o'  the  childher  airly  an'  let  me  know.  I'd 
have  walked  twenty  mile  for  yer  biddin'  f orbye  wan,  an'  the  night 
was  ten  times  worse  than  it  is." 

Maureen  shook  off  his  touch  with  a  shudder,  and  retreated  a 
«tep  or  two. 

"  I  haven't  much  to  say,"  she  said,  hoarsely,  "  only  this.  What 
ctime  o'  day  have  ye  settl't  for  to-morra  P  " 

"  Ten  o'clock,"  said  Con,  sullenly,  his  glow  all  extinguished, 
and  his  face  dark. 

"  Ten !  "  echoed  Maureen.  "  O  Con,"  she  cried,  clasping  her 
hands,  and  raising  her  wild  eyes  to  his  face  in  a  pitiful  appeal, 
«  0  Con,  make  it  twelve ! " 

Con  glanced  at  her  and  cast  his  eyes  on  the  ground  in  dogged 
shame.  "  Let  it  be  twelve,  thin,"  he  said.  "I  cannot  stan  yer 
white  face,  though  the  same  white  face  might  harden  a  man, 
seein'  what's  to  happen  so  soon.  This  much  I'll  grant  ye,  but  ye 
needn't  ax  no  more.  I  have  stood  my  chance  fair  an'  honest,  an' 
I'll  not  let  ye  off  with  yer  bargain." 

Maureen's  supplicating  face  at  this,  was  crossed  by  a  change 
that  made  the  bridegroom  start 

"  You  let  me  off  P"  she  said,  scornfully.  "If  you,  or  any  man 
or  mortal  had  it  in  their  power  to  let  me  off,  I  wouldn't  be  comin' 
jprayin'  to  ye  here  to-night    But  I  swore  an  oath  to  my  God,  an' 


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308  Maureen  Lacey. 

to  Him  I  must  answer  for 't.  An9  that  was  the  rash  s  wearin' wEe» 
death  wasn't. put  in  the  bargain.  For  mind  ye,  Con  Lavelle, 
there's  nothin'  on  land  or  say,  but  death  only,  '11  bring  me  to  yer 
side  to-morra  in  yondher  chapel.  Whisht  1 "  she  said,  as  a  long- 
thundering  gust  roared  oyer  the  roof,  "  there's  death  abroad  to- 
night. Las'  night  I  saw  a  ship  comin'  sailing  sailin',  an9  some- 
body wavin',  wavin',  an'  a  big  wave  rolled  over  the  ship,  an'  thin 
there  rose  wan   screech.    I  woke  up,  an'  there  was  the   storm 

koenin',  keenin' Nan  Lavelle,  will  ye  give  me  a  mouthful  o*~ 

could  wather  P  " 

She  drank  the  draught  eagerly,  and  then  she  gathered  her  wet 
cloak  around  her. 

"  Thank  ye,"  she  said.  "  I'll  be  goin'  now.  Good  night  to  ye/*' 
Con  wakened  out  of  his  black  reverie  and  sprang  to  the  door» 
"  Maureen !  "  he  cried,  grasping  her  cloak  to  detain  her.  "  Ye^ 
dar  not  go  out  yer  lone  in  the  rage  o'  yon  wind.  Stop  a  bit* 
an' " 

"  Let  me  go ! "  said  Maureen,  fiercely,  shaking  him  off.  "  You'd 
betther  let  me  go,  for  I  will  not  answer  for  all  my  doin's  this 
night." 

Her  hands  were  wrenching  at  the  bar,  and  the  door  flew  open 
as  she  spoke.  Again  the  blast  poured  in  with  its  frightful 
gambols.  Con  Lavelle  and  his  sister  fell  back,  and  Maureen'* 
white  face  vanished  in  the  darkness.  Nan  Lavelle  made  fast  the- 
door  again,  and  returned  to  her  pot-oven  with  a  weight  upon  her- 
heart.  Thoroughly  matter-of-fact  as  was  this  young  woman,  it 
did  not  occur  to  her  now  for  the  first  time  that  to-morrow's 
wedding  would  be  an  ill-omened  event.  There  was  an  hour  of 
silence  between  the  brother  and  sister,  and  then  Nan  cried,  aghast, 
as  the  crashing  overhead  arose  to  a  horrible  pitch. 

"  God  keep  us,  Con  !  it's  thrue  what  Maureen  said.  There'll 
be  death  abroad  afore  mornin'  P" 

"  Ay !  "  muttered  Con,  as  he  stalked  restlessly  up  an'  down 
with  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  "  But  it's  thrue  as  well  what  she 
said  forbye — they  did  not  put  death  in  the  bargain.  Dead  or  alive,. 
if  he  beant  here,  'fore  Heaven  I'll  have  my  rights ! " 

The  people  of  Bofin  are  accustomed  to  storms.  The  tempest  is. 
their  lullaby,  their  alarm,  their  burly  friend,  or  their  treacherous- 
enemy.  It  rocks  the  cradle  when  they  are  born,  rings  the  knell, 
when  they  die,  and  keens  over  them  in  their  graves.  "When  there 
is  no  storm  the  world  seems  to  come  to  a  stand-still.  Yet  the  oldest 
islander  cannot  recollect  so  awful  a  night  as  this  eve  of  Maureen's. 


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Maureen  Laeey.  3<M> 

wedding.  Few  will  understand  all  that  this  means,  for  few  can 
imagine  the  terrors  of  a  Bofin  hurricane ;  how  the  sad  barren 
island  is  scourged  by  its  devastating  rage ;  hew  the  shrill  cries  of 
drowning  hundreds  come  ringing  through  its  smothering  clamour ; 
how  the  tigerish  Atlantic  rushes  hungrily  over  its  cliffs,  roaring 
"  Wrecks !  wrecks ! "  and  goes  hissing  back  again  to  do  its  deeds  of 
destruction. 

A  night  like  this  brings  spoils  to  the  island  shore,  and  many 
are  abroad,  looking  right  and  left,  by  break  of  day.  On  this 
particular  morning,  at  early  dawn,  two  men  were  hurrying  along 
the  north-east  headlands.  The  might  of  the  storm  had  subsided, 
and  the  black  night  was  blenching  to  a  pallid  grey.  Streaks  of 
purple  and  green  rode  over  the  seething  ocean,  tinging  the  foam  of 
the  tossing  surges,  whose  blinding  wreaths  thickened  in  the  air  like 
angry  snow-drifts.  Now  rosy  bars  began  blushing  out  from  the 
eastward,  glowing  and  spreading  till  the  sky  seemed  as  swept  by  the 
trail  of  fiery  wings — the  fiery  wings  of  the  Angel  of  Death,  passing 
in  again  at  the  gates  of  heaven.  Coming  along  in  this  splendid 
dawn,  the  two  men  saw  a  female  figure  hastening,  as  if  to  meet 
them. 

It  was  Maureen  in  her  wedding-gown  and  her  wedding-cloak, 
with  a  new  azure  kerchief  tied  over  her  pretty  gold  hair.  Her 
face  was  turned  to  the  sea,  and  the  men  saw  only  the  rim  of  her 
thin  white  cheek  as  she  passed  them  by  without  seeming  to  see 
them. 

"  Presarve  us !  "  said  one ;  "  she's  ready  for  her  weddin'  airly. 
Where  is  she  boun'  for  at  this  hour,  do  ye  think  P  " 

"  God  knows!  "  said  the  other.  "  I  niver  seen  a  sowl  got  so 
wild-like.  If  I  was  Con  Lavelle,  I  would  wash  my  hand's  o' 
her." 

"  Sorra  fears  o'  Con  doin'  any  such  thing ! "  laughed  the 
other.  "  But  where  ondher  heaven  is  she  gettin'  out  to  now  P 
Mother  o'  Marcy !  it's  not  goin'  to  dhrownd  herself  she  is  P  " 

The  men  were  still  on  the  headlands,  but  Maureen  had  de- 
scended to  the  beach.  Ploughing  her  way  through  the  wet, 
slippery  shingle,  she  had  gained  a  line  of  low  rocks,  on  which 
the  surf  was  dashing,  and  she  was  now  clambering  on  hands  and 
knees  to  reach  the  top  of  the  farthest  and  most  difficult  of  the 
chain  yet  bared. 

"  Och,  it's  lookin'  for  Mike  she  is,  poor  girl !  "  said  one  of  the- 
men,  "  an'  feth  she  may  save  hersel'  the  throuble.  The  safest  ship 
that  iver  he  sailed  in  wouldn't  carry  him  within  miles  o'  Bofin 


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310  Maureen  Lacey. 

last  night  Whisht !  what's  yon  black  thing  out  far  there  agin  the 
sky  P    Show  us  yer  glass." 

The  other  produced  an  old  battered  smuggler's  telescope,  and, 
turn  about,  ihey  peered  long  and  steadily  out  to  sea. 

"  Oh,  throth  it's  a  wreck ! "  said  the  one. 

"  Ay,  f  eth  I "  said  the  other. 

"  Well!  "  said  the  first,  "God  rest  the  poor  sowls  that  are 
gone  to  their  reck'nin,  but  it's  an  ill  win'  that  blows  nobody 
good.  There'll  be  many's  the  bit  of  a  thing  washin'  in  afore 
nightfall.  Maureen ! "  he  cried  out,  suddenly,  raising  his  voice  to 
a  roar.     6t  My  God !  I  was  feared  she  was  mad.    Maureen !  " 

A  long,  unearthly  cry  was  the  answer,  ringing  through  the 
dawn.  Maureen  had  been  crouching  on  her  knees,  dangerously 
bending  to  the  foam,  as  if  searching  under  the  curve  of  each 
breaker  as  it  crashed  up  and  spilt  its  boiling  froth  upon  the  rock. 
Now  she  rose  up  with  her  terrific  cry,  and,  throwing  her  arms 
wildly  over  her  head,  leaped  into  the  sea  and  disappeared. 

Running  swiftly  down  the  headlands,  the  men  gained  the 
beach,  and  there  they  saw  Maureen,  not  floating  out  to  sea  upon 
the  waves,  but  standing  battling  with  them,  up  to  her  waist  in  the 
seething  foam,  clinging  with  one  hand  to  the  rock  beside  her,  and 
with  the  other  tugging  in  desperation  at  something  dark  and  heavy 
that  rose  and  sank  with  the  swelling  and  rebounding  of  the  tide. 
Dashing  into  the  water  the  men  were  quickly  at  her  side. 

"  It  is  Mike ! "  gasped  Maureen,  half  blinded,  half  choking 
with  the  surf.     "  Bring  him  in ! " 

They  loosened  her  fingers  from  that  dark,  heavy  something,  and 
found  that,  indeed,  it  was  the  body  of  a  man.  They  laid  him  on  the 
beach,  drew  the  hair  from  his  face,  and  recognised  their  old  com- 
rade, Mike  Tiernay.  Maureen  uttered  no  more  wild  cries.  She 
took  the  cloak  from  her  shoulders  and  spread  it  up  to  his  chin. 
She  put  her  hand  into  his  bosom,  found  the  ring  she  had  given 
him,  attached  round  his  neck  by  a  string,  and  slipped  it  at  onoe 
upon  her  finger.  Then  she  sat  down  and  laid  his  head  upon  her 
knee. 

"  Will  you  go,"  she  said,  calmly,  to  the  men,  "  and  tell  Con 
lavelle  that  Mike  Tiernay  has  come  home  P  Will  ye  tell  him," 
she  added,  holding  up  her  hand — "  will  ye  tell  him  Maureen  Lacey 
has  a  ring  upon  her  finger  P  " 

And  this  was  all  the  wedding  that  Bofin  saw  that  day. 

But  little  further  of  Maureen  Lacey  is  known  to  the  writer  of 

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At  Midnight.  311 

this  history.  The  wreck  of  the  ship  in  which  Mike  had  been  re- 
turning was  one  of  those  disasters  whose  details  fill  the  daily 
newspapers  in  winter-time.  Sewn  in  the  poor  fellow's  jacket  was 
found  a  note  for  a  good  little  sum  of  money.  The  following  year 
a  fever  visited  the  island,  sweeping  off,  amongst  others,  Maureen's 
stepmother,  and  all  her  children  but  one.  After  this  Maureen  sold 
all  their  worldly  goods,  and  departed  for  America,  carrying  her 
little  brother  in  her  arms. 


AT  MIDNIGHT. 
A  Sonnet  ik  Dialogue. 


A  Dying  One. 

IN  this  dark  hour,  who  standeth  bj  my  aide  P 
Christ, 
One  who  hath  loved  thee  even  unto  death ! 

Dying  One. 
Why  comes  He  now,  ere  the  new  daj  cometh  ? 

Christ. 
To  lead  thee  through  Heaven's  gate,  at  morningtide : 

Dying  One. 
Lord,  is  it  Thou,  gold- vestured  and  glad-eyed  ? 

Christ. 
Yea,  for  "  Thy  child  bring  home/'  the  Father  saith : 

Dying  One. 
Blest  be  those  words  fulfilled  of  Thy  sweet  breath ! 

Christ. 
Take  up  thy  cross,  thou  must  be  crucified  : 

Dying  One. 
O  Lord,  dear  Lord,  is  there  no  way  but  this  ? 

Christ. 
My  child,  pierced  hands  and  feet  do  I  not  bear  ? 

Dying  One. 
Master,  have  pity,  if  my  faint  heart  quail ! 

Christ 
To  Paradise,  this  the  one  pathway  is  t 

Dying  One. 
And  wilt  Thou  guide  my  shivering  spirit  there  ? 

Christ. 
Yea,  mine  own  child,  I  leave  Thee  not,  nor  fail ! 

Evkltn  Ptns. 


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313    ) 


WINGED   WORDS.* 

1.  God — my  God  ! — God  is  all  forgotten ;  and  men  try  to  turn 
into  an  everlasting  tabernacle  this  Arab's  tent  raised  for  a  night's, 
shelter  in  the  wilderness. 

2.  The  first  beginnings  of  passion  are  small ;  but,  like  a  rebel 
army,  it  swells  as  it  advances. 

3.  Souls  travelling  towards  eternity  must  not  let  themselves 
be  dazzled  by  the  silly  fopperies  of  life. 

4.  Begin  your  spiritual  training  early.  You  cannot  ride  that 
steed  dashing  wildly  across  the  pampas  ;  but  even  he  would  have 
been  amenable  to  the  rein,  and  become  a  strong,  high-spirited 
courser,  if  caught  in  time  and  trained  skilfully. 

5.  After  confession  one  should  feel  and  act  like  a  schoolboy 
who,  after  being  punished  for  soiling  his  copybook,  gets  a  new 
one  to  start  afresh,  and  takes  special  pains  to  do  better. 

6.  By  cutting  off  the  sprouting  leaves  constantly,  the  root  of' 
the  plant  is  gradually  killed ;  for  nature  is  unequal  to  this  incessant 
reproduction  of  foliage.  So  with  our  faults  and  the  particular 
examen.  Nip  off  the  first  tender  shoots — the  little  outward 
ebullitions  of  pride,  &c,  and  the  root  of  the  evil — the  passion- 
within — in  the  end  dies  out. 

7.  Judge  of  nations  by  their  peasantry ;  the  nobles  are  every- 
where nearly  alike. 

8.  The  devil  loves  listless,  loitering  moments.  When  you 
feel  particularly  dull  and  stupid,  take  a  fling  into  the  active  life 
somehow. 

9.  Those  who  aspire  to  eminence  in  God's  service  must  begin 
from  the  ranks. 

10.  Do  nothing  for  the  mere  sake  of  enjoyment.  But  relaxa- 
tion without  some  degree  of  enjoyment  is  not  really  relaxation. 

11.  An  actor  among  puppets  cares  not  for  them,  but  for  the 
applause  of  the  spectators.  So  we  amongst  our  fellow-men.  God 
is  looking  on.    Is  He  pleased  with  us  P 

12.  God  here  is  a  King  in  exile.    When  the  Restoration  comes,. 

*  These  ore  phrases  from  the  spiritual  exhortations  of  Father  Tracey  Clarke,. 
S  J.,  to  his  novices  in  1867  and  1868.  See  the  sketch  of  Augustus  Law,  S. J. 
in  the  present  number  of  this  Magazine. 


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Winged  Wards.  313 

how  magnificently  He  will  reward  those  who  have  proved  them- 
■selves  loyal  through  the  worst. 

13.  Those  who  have  given  up  all  for  God  must  not  let  their 
affections  be  taken  up  with  any  duty  or  employment,  or  anything 
else,  however  good  and  holy,  outside  God :  as  the  ivy,  when  the 
oak  to  which  it  has  clung  is  fallen,  will  creep  along  the  ground, 
ready  to  climb  up  any  shrub  or  stick  it  may  encounter. 

14.  Temptations,  afflictions,  seasons  of  darkness,  often  advance 
us  in  the  spiritual  life :  as  a  hurricane,  which  one  fears  will  over- 
whelm the  vessel,  may,  when  skilfully  grappled  with,  drive  the 
•ship  that  is  strong  enough  to  bear  it,  forward  in  her  course  with 
astonishing  rapidity. 

15.  Anything,  however  good  seemingly,  that  tends  to  take  us 
out  of  our  actual  sphere  of  duty,  is  from  the  devil.  God  loves 
order. 

- 16.  (Of  retreats,  &c.)  Fill  your  cruise  out  of  the  spring  at 
the  appointed  resting-place:  else  you  will. not  have  strength  for 
the  remainder  of  your  journey  across  the  desert. 

17.  We  should  let  no  day  pass  without  some  deliberate  act  of 
mortification,  interior  or  exterior — some  check  to  nature,  to  show 
the  lower  part  of  the  soul  that  it  is  subject  to  the  higher :  as  a 
-coachman  chucks  the  reins  occasionally,  for  no  special  purpose  but 
just  to  remind  the  horses  that  they  are  not  jogging  along  the  road 
for  their  private  gratification. 

18.  When  a  person  begins  to  think  himself  very  useful  in  his 
particular  sphere,  it  is  bad  enough ;  but  there  are  some  who  come 
to  look  on  themselves  as  absolutely  necessary,  and  their  case  is 
hopeless.     Deus  est  Em  nece&sarium.    Only  God  is  necessary. 

19.  We  must  beware  of  every  trace  of  that  idolatry  of  the 
body  which,  under  many  disguises,  is  so  rampant  over  the  civilized 
world  now-a-days. 

20.  Particular  Devotions  are  like  dishes  at  a  feast — meant  to 
be  looked  at  and  admired  by  all,  out  some  suited  for  certain  palates, 
others  for  others.  He  who  devours  them  all  will  presently  be  very 
sick.  The  wisest  plan  is  to  confine  your  attentions  to  one  or  two 
solid  dishes,  with  a  little  simple  custard. 

21.  As  a  man  with  the  plague  upon  him  spreads  the  contagion 
by  going  out  into  the  town ;  so  in  a  community  one  who  has  no 
restraint  over  his  tongue.  He  talks  about  difficulties  as  to  obedi- 
ence, or  something  else ;  and  his  companion  who  never  thought  of 
such  a  thing  begins  to  fancy  he  feels  the  same. 


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(    314 


AN  OLD  MAN'S  REVERIE  .♦ 

'TIS  sixty  yean  since  first  beneath  this  tree 
•L     I  stood  a  boy  of  ten, 
And  here  what  time  has  left,  or  made  of  me, 
I  stand  again. 

Let  me  retrace  the  path  which  I  have  made, 

A  path  too  quickly  found ; 
For  it  is  marked  by  many  a  cypress  shade, 

And  rising  mound. 

I  was  the  youngest  of  a  group  whose  mirth 

Made  us  a  merry  home ; 
I  sit  alone  beside  my  silent  hearth — 

Where  are  they  gone  P 

Father  and  mother  long  have  fallen  asleep— 

The  grass  grows  on  each  breast, 
Brothers  and  sisters  I  have  had  to  weep ; 

They  are  at  rest. 

A  gentle  wife  upon  my  happy  heart 

Rested  her  golden  head— 
I  watched  her  fade  and  silently  depart, 

And  kissed  her  dead. 

Three  little  children  clung  around  my  knee. 

Bright-haired  and  earnest-eyed, 
But  none  of  them  doth  now  remain  to  me, 

They  too  have  died. 

The  friends  of  youth  no  more  with  tales  of  old 

The  pleasant  past  recall, 
In  dreamless  sleep  they  lie  serenely  cold— 

I've  outlived  all. 

Yet,  as  I  sit  while  shadows  to  and  fro 

Around  me  softly  steal, 
I  live  again  the  happy  long  ago, 

And  happy  feel. 

*  This  relic  of  one  whose  name  was  once  so  familiar  to  the  readers  of  this- 
Magazine  has  just  come  back  to  us  after  a  long  furlough ;  for  it  was  sont  to  us- 
hv  the  author,  who  died  April  5, 1883,  and  we  seem  to  have  counselled  concen 
tration,  as  this  copy  is  niaiked  as  being  "  shorter  by  seven  stanzap.*—  Ed.  J.  AT 


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An  Old  Man's  Reverie.  315. 

Again,  with  playmates,  on  the  velvet  lawn 

I  triumph  strive  to  gain, 
And  climb  the  mountain  at  the  break  of  dawn, 

With  throbbing  vein. 

I 'swim  the  lakes,  and  roam  the  leafy  wood; 

Soft  was  the  setting  sun, 
Ah  t  nowhere  did  I  then  find  solitude ; 

My  heart  was  young. 

And,  golden  time!  again  I  woo  my  bride, 

My  withered  pulses  stir, 
Among  the  fairest  in  a  world  so  wide 

Who  was  like  her  P 

Uow  well  I  see  her,  that  soft  summer  even 

When  in  the  bending  skies 
The  stars  stole  out,  less  bright  to  me  in  heaven 

Than  her  dear  eyes. 

I  spoke  my  love,  and  her  quick- waving  blush 

Her  own  to  me  confessed ; 
Well,  well,  perchance  'tis  better  I  should  hush, 

Such  thoughts  to  rest. 

After  the  dust  and  heat  of  life's  long  way, 

Now  when  the  night  is  near, 
The  stars  shine  out,  that  had  been  hid  by  day, 

Divinely  clear. 

By  them  I  see  life's  silver  cord  held  fast, 

Clasped  by  a  wounded  Hand : 
The  deep  significance  of  grief,  at  last 

I  understand. 

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AN    ARCACHON    TRAGEDY.* 
By  Mrs.  Frank  Pentriix. 

I  CANNOT  tell  how  long  I  had  sat  in  the  old  boat,  but  my 
musings  were  gliding  into  a  doze,  when  a  laugh  awoke  me. 
The  sands  were  growing  gray  in  the  waning  light ;  behind  them 
the  pine  trees  looked  more  dismal  than  usual ;  and  the  only  bright 
spot  was  across  the  bay,  where  the  sun  was  disappearing  in  the 
sea,  his  red  face  glowing  with  fair  promises  for  the  morrow.  "  I 
think  'twill  be  fine,"  said  I ;  and  looking  that  way  again  I  saw  two 
people  standing  where  the  waves  met  the  sand :  at  their  feet  lay 
a  little  boat,  a  pretty  newly  painted  thing,  with  the  name  of 
"  Mariette  "  in  large  white  letters  on  its  prow ;  and  the  two  peo- 
ple stood  beside  it,  hand  in  hand,  the  sun's  last  beams  resting  on 
their  faces,  while  they  smiled  back  at  him,  and  seemed  to  beg  that 
he  would  shine  on  the  morrow ;  for  the  morrow  was  to  be  their 
wedding  day.  At  last  the  man  got  into  the  boat,  and  rowed  a  few 
yards  from  the  shore ;  then  he  stopped,  looked  back,  and  waving 
his  blue  cap,  cried  gaily  :  "  &  demain !  &  domain  !  "  And  from 
the  shore  the  girl  answered,  with  happy  voice :  "  &  demain ! "  I 
went  home,  half  filled  with  a  lonely  woman's  envy  at  their  happi- 
ness ;  yet  praying  for  it  with  all  my  soul ;  for  Mariette,  the  pretty 
bride,  had  wound  herself  round  my  heart.  At  first,  when  I  had 
met  her  in  my  walks,  her  pitying  eyes  had  said  how  sorry  she 
felt  for  the  lonely  invalid;  later  came  a  smile,  and  a  timid 
"  bonjour ; "  till  at  last  we  grew  into  friends,  and  I  learnt  from 
her  the  simple  story  of  her  life  and  hopes.  Her  father,  Pierre 
Lafont,  was  a  risinier,  and  worked  among  the  pines  in  the  forest 
of  Arcachon ;  while  Jean,  her  betrothed,  followed  the  same  trade 
on  the  opposite  shore.  The  two  children  had  grown  up  together, 
had  made  their  first  communion  on  the  same  day,  and  for  years 
had  met  every  Sunday,  when  Jean  rowed  over  to  hear  Mass  at 
Ndtre  Dame  d' Arcachon.  As  for  Marie,  she  had  passed  the  whole 
of  her  life  in  her  whit$  cottage  among  the  pines ;  working,  sing- 
ing, 'making  the  sunshine  of  her  father's  days,  and  she  looked 
forward  with  delight  to  spending  the  same  simple  existence  in 
that  other  white  cottage,  Jean's  home,  across  the  bay.     "  Perhaps 

*  See  w  An  Arcachon  Comedy  "  at  page  266. 

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An  Arcachon  Tragedy.  317 

"Madame,"  she  had  said,  her  eyes  glistening  with  pleasure; 
'"  perhaps  my  father  will  give  up  his  work  here,  and  live  with  us 
on  the  other  side.    Ah !  then  I  think  we  should  be  too  happy !  " 

The  sun  has  kept  his  word,  thought  I,  as  I  hurried  along  the 
•"  Boulevard  de  la  Plage  "  on  my  way  to  the  church.  Passing  by 
the  cross,  I  saw  that  the  wedding  guests  had  gathered  round  it. 
Old  Pierre,  his  bronzed  face  beaming,  his  blue  dress  and  red  sash 
resplendent ;  Marietta's  aunt,  an  old  woman  with  a  bright  hand- 
kerchief round  her  head;  and  her  son,  evidently  a  shepherd- 
Mariette  herself  was  all  in  white,  her  sweet  face  half  hidden  by 
.her  veil,  her  hand  straying  nervously  over  her  dress,  like  a  little 
brown  bird  fluttering  in  the  snow.  Their  faces  were  turned  to  the 
bay,  across  which  the  bridegroom's  boat  was  doubtless  coming ;  so 
I  walked  on  to  the  church,  and  took  my  place  in  a  corner  of  Our 
Lady's  chapel.  The  sacristan  came  and  went  in  his  list  shoes ; 
now  arranging  the  heaths  on  the  altar ;  now  polishing  the  brass 
candlesticks ;  going,  returning,  and  at  last  disappearing  altogether. 
Then  came  the  Cure  in  cotta  and  stole,  and  he  looked  wonderingly 
round  the  church ;  knelt  a  moment  at  the  altar  and  also  went 
away.  It  was  getting  late ;  the  sun  shone  brightly  through  the 
stained  glass,  a  bird,  perched  on  the  open  window,  sang  a  marriage 
hymn,  but  no  bride  came. 

Tired  of  waiting,  I  returned  to  the  cross,  and  found  that  the 
bride  and  her  friends  were  still  there,  and  that  the  Curl  and  the 
sacristan  had  joined  them.  Pierre  and  his  old  sister  were  talking 
loudly ;  their  heads  nodding,  their  arms  pointing  to  the  sea ;  the 
young  man  was  gone,  and  Mariette  sat  beneath  the  cross,  her  eyes 
fixed  on  the  opposite  shore. 

"  My  nephew  is  gone  to  learn  why  he  tarries,"  said  Pierre,  in 
explanation,  and  then  we  waited  in  silence.  To  me  it  had  seemed 
an  hour,  to  Mariette,  perhaps  a  day,  but  at  last  a  boat  was  seen 
.returning.  The  shepherd  rowed  it  silently  to  the  shore,  and  then 
we  saw  that,  behind  it,  was  another  boat,  keel  upwards,  and  with 
the  name  of  Mariette,  in  white  letters,  on  its  prow. 

The  young  man  came  towards  us  quickly,  and  in  his  hand  he 
held  a  blue  cap,  wet  through,  and  stained  by  the  sea  water.  He 
stopped  before  Mariette,  tried  to  speak,  failed,  and  gently  laid  the 
cap  at  her  feet.  Then  Pierre  broke  into  loud  cries;  stamped, 
•shook  his  clenched  hands  at  the  sea,  called  on  Jean  by  a  hundred 
loving  names,  and  sobbed  aloud ;  the  old  woman  and  the  sacristan 
.mingled  their  lamentations;  the  Curl  laid  his  hand  kindly  on 

Vol..  xiv.  No.  156.  ^24 

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318  An  Arcachon  Tragedy. 

Mariette'8  shoulder :  "  God  comfort  thee,  my  child/'  said  the  old! 
priest,  "  and  give  thee  strength." 

But  Mariette  did  not  answer :  she  picked  up  the  cap,  kissed  it 
gently,  and,  taking  her  father's  arm,  led  him  back  into  the  dark- 
ness of  the  forest. 

"  Poor  child,  poor  little  one !  "  said  the  Cur6,  with  the  tears- 
in  his  eyes ;  and  then  perceiving  me,  "  Ah,  Madame,  you  knew 
them !  so  good,  so  happy ! " 

"  Is  he  drowned,  are  you  sure  P  "  asked  I,  bewildered. 

"  Alas,  but  too  sure !  He  is  not  the  first  of  my  children  who- 
lies  buried  in  the  sand  of  the  bay.  God  only  knows  how  many 
rest  in  that  sad  cemetery." 

"  But  the  sea  was  so  calm.    How  could  it  happen  P  "  said  I. 

"Who  can  tell,  Madame P  I  always  thought  the  boat  too* 
small.  Perhaps  he  was  looking  back  to  see  the  last  of  Mariette  ; 
the  last  indeed,  poor  boy  !  "  and  raising  his  hat  with  a  courteous 
gesture,  the  Cur6  went  sadly  back  to  the  presbytery ;  and  presently,, 
through  the  noonday  stillness,  came  the  tolling  of  the  bell ;  the- 
same  bell  that  should  have  rung  their  marriage  peal. 

For  a  month  I  did  not  leave  my  room,  but  in  my  first  walk,. 
I  sought  the  path  which  led  to  Mariette* s  cottage ;  and  among  the- 
trees  I  met  Pierre,  returning  from  his  work.  He  looked  an  old 
man  now,  bent  and  wrinkled,  and  my  "bonjour"  brought  no- 
smile  to  his  face,  though  he  stopped,  and  seemed  pleased  to  meet 
me. 

"  How  is  Mariette  P"  asked  I. 

"  Poor  little  one,'1  said  he,  sadly,  "  I  think  she  will  never  be- 
well  again.     What  has  she  to  live  for  now  P  " 

"  She  still  has  you,"  I  said. 

"  Yes,  Madame,  that  is  true ;  and  she  struggles  with  her  grief. 
She  works  as  usual ;  she  even  tries  to  cheer  her  poor  old  father, 
and  she  is  good.  She  says  *  Le  bon  Dieu  knows  best ; '  but  one 
cannot  live  when  one's  heart  is  dead ;  and  I  think  hers  died  that 
day,  when  Jean's  boat  came  empty  to  the  shore.  Poor  Mariette  I 
poor  Mariette !  "  and  the  old  man  hid  his  face  in  his  hands  and 
wept  with  a  Frenchman's  unrestrained  sorrow. 

"  To  think,"  continued  he,  "  that  she  cannot  even  go  to  his 
grave  !  To  think  that  he  lies  there  in  the  sand,  without  a  cross,, 
without  a  name,  without  a  resting-place !  " 

"  God  will  give  him  one/'  I  said. 

"  Ah  yes,  I  know ;  and  Monsieur  le  Cure*  says  so  too  ;  but  it 


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Augustus  Law,  8.  J.  819 

is  hard  all  the  same.  Every  evening  Mariette  goes  to  the  shore,  and 
prays  there.  She  is  gone  now ;  hut  it  is  getting  late,  I  must  fetch 
her  home/' 

"  Shall  I  go  with  you  P"  ashed  I ;  and  my  offer  brought  a 
brighter  look  to  his  face. 

"If  Madame  would!  it  would  please  Mariette."  So  we 
walked  silently  to  the  shore,  while  the  Angelus  bell  rang  out  from 
the  church  tower,  and  the  little  waves  rose  and  fell  with  a  low 
murmur  on  the  sand.  Mariette  was  kneeling  against  a  boat ;  her 
hands  clasped,  her  head  bent  down  upon  them ;  and,  as  we  drew 
near,  she  did  not  move. 

"How  tired  she  is !  I  think  she  sleeps,"  said  her  father,  laying 
his  hand  gently  on  her  shoulder,  and  then,  stooping  to  look  in  her 
face,  he  saw  that  she  was  dead. 


AUGUSTUS    LAW,    S.J. 

Notes  in  Remembrance. 

Bt  the  Editor. 

Part  III. 

The  next  change  in  Augustus  Law's  career  was  foreshadowed  in  the 
last  of  the  extracts  from  his  diary,  stating  that  he  had  taken  Saint 
Aloysius  as  his  patron.  We  are  not  told  where  he  had  made  the 
acquaintance  of  that  most  amiable  young  saint.  It  is  not  till  after- 
wards (June  6,  1852)  that  we  find  the  purchase  of  Alban  Butler 
recorded :  "  Yesterday,  I  got  Butler's  Lives  of  the  Saints— twelve 
shillings  the  lot." 

Pains  and  penalties  were  not  slow  in  falling  on  the  youthful  con- 
vert. He  can  hardly  have  declared  himself  a  Catholic  when  the  will 
of  "  dear  Aunt  OolvUle"  was  drawn  up.  She  died  on  May  30,  1852. 
bequeathing  £500  to  Augustus  and  each  of  his  brothers,  and  £200  to 
each  of  his  sisters,  on  condition  that  each  .of  them  should  sign  a 
promise  not  to  give  any  of  the  money  to  Catholic  charities  either 
directly  or  indirectly.  It  is  only  fair  to  add  that  Mr.  Law  seems  to 
have  generally  been  treated  by  his  relatives  with  as  much  kindness  as 
another  convert-parson,  Father  Ignatius  Spencer,  the  "  Uncle  George  M 
of  the  present  Earl  Spencer.    Augustus,  indeed,  at  the  end  of  one  of 


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320  Augustus  Law,  S.J. 

his  letters  (which  will  not  turn  up  when  it  is  wanted)  sends  remem- 
brances to  the  friends  who  have  been  kind  as  well  as  to  "the  enemy 
people."  The  absence  of  such  allusions  is  not  conclusive  in  these 
Memoirs,  for  they  have  been  edited  very  scrupulously  in  the  matter  of 
charitableness.  When  everything  that  Augustus  hears  about  one  of 
his  sisters  gives  him  the  impression  that  she  is  a  little  saint,  and  on 
the  other  hand  when  he  speaks  of  certain  devils  being  let  loose 
upon  the  Pope,  both  saint  and  devils  are  represented  here  by  discreet 
dashes.  Kay,  when  he  transfers  his  patronage  from  one  weekly  news- 
paper to  another,  a  charitable  dash  again  spares  the  hurt  feelings  of 
the  poor  journal  that  is  set  aside. 

The  present  Cardinal  Archbishop  of  Westminster  is  frequently 
named  at  this  part  of  Augustus's  diary.  "  Thursday,  June  10,  1852. 
Still  unwell,  but  went  with  papa  and  May  to  hear  Manning  preach  his 
first  sermon  as  a  Catholic,  at  the  Convent  of  the  Oood  Shepherd.  It 
was  a  beautiful  sermon." 

Though  not  quite  recovered  from  the  illness  here  alluded  to,  he  sailed 
in  the  Encounter  for  the  Mediterranean  the  next  day,  of  course 
announcing  himself  a  Catholic,  and  devoting  himself  to  "  The  Garden 
of/the  Soul,"  &c,  during  the  religious  services  to  which  he  had 
previously  been  so  faithful.  It  is  edifying  to  notice  what  the  young 
midshipman  thought  of  when  first  touching  land.  "July  6,  1852. 
All  I  like  of  Lisbon  is  the  English  College ;  that  is  the  only  attraction 
for  me."  And  what  was  its  attraction  ?  The  entry  for  the  9th  July, 
tells  us.  "  Went  on  shore  at  six  to  the  English  College.  I  first  went 
to  the  church  and  prepared  myself  for  confession,  and  then  went  into 
a  room  and  confessed  to  Mr.  Richmond.  I  received  the  Most  Holy 
Sacrament  at  his  Mass.  Afterwards  remained  in  the  church  for  a 
short  time,  then  went  out,  and  Mr.  Richmond  said  to  me,  '  Now  you 
feel  comfortable ' — which  I  did  indeed."  Father  Richmond  says  of 
his  visitor  in  answering  a  letter  from  his  father :  "  Tour  son  Augustus 
was  treated  here  with  no  more  kindness  than  he  deserved.  He  was  at 
home  on  his  very  first  introduction.  His  guileless  confidence  and 
childlike  dooility  soon  won  for  him  the  favour  and  affection  of  all 
at  the  college."  So  it  was  with  all  whom  Augustus  Law  met,  even  in 
a  passing  way,  all  through  his  life. 

Resuming  his  diary  after  a  break  on  December  10, 1852,  the  young 
gentleman,  who  had  just  become  a  mate  in  Her  Majesty's  Service, 
records  several  events,  such  as  his  beginning  to  learn  the  violin,  and 
then  ends  for  the  day  thus :  "  However,  as  it  is  now  10.15  p.m.,  I  must 
shut  up  with  saying  that  I  am  more  rejoiced  than  ever  at  becoming  a 
member  of  the  Holy  Catholic  Church,  and  may  Cod  make  me  thank- 
ful for  His  great  blessings."  And  he  winds  up  the  year  with  these 
words :  "  Thanks  be  to  Ood  for  all  His  mercies  to  me  during  the  past 
year,  and  ever  since  I  was  born,  and  above  all  for  bringing  me  into 


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Augustus  Law,  S.J.  821 

His  own  most  holy  Catholic  Apostolic  Church.  Thanks,  thanks  be  for 
ever  to  Him  for  all  His  great  mercies.  Oh,  all  je  saints,  and,  above 
ali  mj  dear  Mother,  join  with  me  in  hearty  thanks  to  God,  the  merci- 
ful and  gracious  God." 

I  despair  of  being  able  to  quote  a  tithe  of  the  phrases  and  passages 
I  should  wish  to  quote  from  the  holy  youth's  letters  and  journal,  as 
indications  of  the  way  in  which  God  drew  him  on  at  this  crisis, 
"  disposing  ascensions  in  his  heart."  But  the  following  letter  to  his 
uncle  marks  another  turning  point  in  his  career,  and  must  needs  be 
given  in  full : — 

H.M.S.   "  EXCELLENT,"  PORTSMOUTH 

AprU  27,  1863. 
My  drab  Uncle, — I  believe  it  to  be  my  duty  to  inform  you  of  something  which 
may  rery  much  surprise  you  at  first,  which  is  my  haying  formed  a  resolution  of 
becoming  a  priest  Perhaps  it  will  not  be  out  of  the  way  to  mention  the  circumstances 
that  hare  led  me  to  desire  to  become  one.  I  must  first  commence  with  the  time  when 
I  was  a  boy  at  Somerton  school.  I  had  always  preferred  and  wished  to  be  a  clergy- 
man, but  in  February,  1846,  you  were  so  kind  as  to  offer  my  father  a  cadetship  in  the 
navy  for  me,  which,  as  circumstances  had  much  changed  by  my  dearest  mother's  death, 
I  accepted.  I  got  on  tolerably  in  the  navy,  and  liked  it  pretty  well,  but  several  times 
I  thought  seriously  of  writing  to  my  father  and  asking  him  to  take  me  out  of  the 
navy,  and  educate  mo  for  a  clergyman,  but  knowing  it  would  be  a  great  difficulty  for 
my  father,  in  the  pecuniary  point  of  view,  to  educate  me  at  one  of  the  universities,  I 
at  last  gave  the  idea  up  altogether.  In  May,  last  year,  I  became  a  Catholic,  and  in  June 
scaled  in  the  "  Encounter."  When  at  Lisbon,  I  visited  the  college  where  some  English 
students  prepare  for  priesthood.  I  then  contrasted  their  life  with  a  life  on  board  a 
man-of-war,  aad  thought  I  should  much  prefer  the  former.  The  desire  occupied  my 
mind  constantly  then,  and  from  time  to  time  afterwards,  till,  when  I  was  on  leave  the 
other  day,  I  thought  it  was  high  time  to  decide  either  for  one  or  the  other,  and  so 
having  recommended  the  matter  earnestly  to  God,  I  decided  finally  upon  becoming  a 
priest,  and  then  told  my  father  of  my  wish.  He  wished  me  to  wait  for  six  or  eight 
months,  that  I  might  be  quite  sure  that  my  mind  was  quite  made  up  before  I  left  my 
present  profession,  and  consequently,  according  to  my  father's  wish,  I  am  still  in  the 
"  Excellent,"  preparing  for  the  usual  examination  mates  have  to  pass  on  leaving  the 
■hip.  I  am  well  aware  how  greatly  you,  and  others  of  my  kind  relations,  will  dis- 
approve of  my  leaving  the  navy,  but  having  well  reflected,  and  at  length  decided  upon 
its  being  more  conducive  to  my  eternal  interests  that  I  should  become  a  priest,  I  must 
only  be  sorry  that  it  should  be  displeasing  to  my  dear  relations.  In  conclusion,  dear 
uncle,  I  must  thank  you  heartily  now,  and  hope  I  shall  always  be  grateful,  for  your 
▼ery  great  kindness  to  me  ever  since  I  have  been  in  the  navy.  Of  course  I  cannot 
expect  that  you  would  continue  the  allowance  you  have  for  the  last  seven  yean  made  to 
me,  after  my  leaving  the  navy.  My  dear  uncle,  I  am  convinced  that  the  great  object 
of  life  is  to  prepare  to  die,  and  I  wish  to  do  it  in  the  best  possible  way,  and  believe  me 
to  be,  your  most  affectionate  nephew, 

Augustus  H.  Law. 

The  Earl  of  Ellenborough's  reply,  as  his  young  kinsman  remarks, 
44  was  kind  and  free  enough  from  bigotry." 

113  Eaton  Square, 

<4prtf28,1853. 
My  dear  Augustus,— I  certainly  am  very  sorry  to  hear  that  you  think  of  leaving  the 
navy  in  rder  to  become  a  priest.  A  man  may  be  good  and  do  good  to  others  by  his  advice 

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322  Augustus  Law,  S.J. 

and  example  in  whatever  situation  he  may  be  placed,  and  the  more  he  Is  brought  into 
communication  with  large  numbers  of  persons  exposed  to  great  temptations,  the  mors 
good  he  may  do,  by  showing  that  they  can  be  effectually  resisted.  I  doubt  whether 
any  priest  was  ever  a  better  man  than  Lord  Oollingwood,  and  you  will  not  easily  find 
one  better  than  Captain  Chads.  Solitude  and  celibacy,  although  they  may  diminish 
in  some  cases  the  number  of  bad  actions,  may  not  impose  restraint  upon  bad  thoughts, 
and  God  knows  men's  thoughts,  and  will  judge  them  by  those,  as  well  as  by  their 
actions.  You  are  making  a  great  mistake  as  to  happiness  here,  without  at  all 
improving  your  chance  of  happiness  hereafter. — Yours  affectionately, 

Ellknborough. 

We  should  wish  to  make  room  also  for  the  very  creditable  letter 
which  the  Hon.  Henry  Law  sent  of  his  own  accord  on  this  trying 
occasion.  But,  though  we  'are  glad  to  exemplify  the  kindly  feeling 
shown  by  his  Protestant  relatives,  Augustus  himself  is  the  object  of 
our  study,  and  we  cannot  omit  a  meditation  which  he  wrote  when 
making  up  his  mind  as  to  his  special  calling  in  life.  It  is  dated  June 
26,  1853,  in  the  middle  of  his  nineteenth  year. 

St.  Philip  Neri  used  to  say  heaven  is  not  made  for  the  slothful,  and  let  me  take 
care  that  I  do  not  come  under  that  head.  If  I  hare  been  slothful  and  idle,  seldom 
exerting  myself  to  do  anything  for  the  glory  of  God,  let  me  arouse  myself.  Stir 
yourself  up,  0  my  soul !  Lament  your  defects.  Beseech  God  to  pardon  them,  and 
endeavour  to  lead  for  the  future  a  better  life.  And  as,  O  Lord,  following  the  vocation 
that  Thou  hast  marked  out  for  me  is  necessary  for  my  salvation,  show  me  Thy  will ;.  I 
will  do  it.  If  I  have  made  a  mistake  in  believing  I  am  called  to  the  priesthood,  let 
it  not  be  too  late.  Call  me  back  before  it  is  too  late,  0  Lord.  But,  O  Lord,  if  it  is 
Thy  blessed  will  that  I  should  be  one,  let  me  devote  myself  to  Thee  more  and  more, 
and  try  to  make  Thee  loved  by  every  one.  Give  me  the  graces  necessary  for  such  an 
awful  office,  and  then,  O  Lord,  Thy  will  be  done,  with  regard  to  whether  I  shall  be  a 
regular  or  secular,  and  if  I  am  to  be  a  regular,  Thy  will  be  done  again  with  regard  to 
what  order— whether  Jesuits,  Bedemptorists,  Passionists.  Let  Thy  will  be  always 
beloved  and  sought  after  by  me.  Lord,  hear  my  prayer.  St.  Teresa  said  to  her  reli- 
gious : — "  One  soul,  my  daughters,  one  eternity."  If  one  only  considered  in  his  heart 
these  words,  "One  soul,  one  eternity."  What  volumes  they  express !  Yea,  I  have 
only  one  soul,  and  if  that  is  lost  all  is  lost,  and  for  ever,  too.  How  precious  ought 
this  soul  to  be  to  me  then.  How  careful  I  am  of  my  body  that  nothing  hurts  it,  that 
it  never  wants  for  anything ;  but  how  differently  I  behave  with  regard  to  my  soul. 
I  don't  mind  my  poor  soul  going  through  all  sorts  of  dangers,  and  if  it  wants  food 
(prayer  or  meditation),  it  must  wait  till  it  is  convenient  for  the  body.  How  long  is  it 
to  be  this  way  ?  One  soul,  one  eternity.  Think  on  these  words,  and  you  will  say  it 
should  be  no  longer.  0  my  blessed  Saviour,  forgive  my  many  treasons  and  infidelities. 
Come  Thyself  and  feed,  my  soul,  spiritually,  with  the  bread  of  life.  Grant  that  I 
may  not  erer  be  separated  from  Thee.  Mary,  my  dear  mother,  intercede  for  me,  and 
obtain  final  perseverance  for  me.  St.  Joseph,  St  Aloysius,  St  F.  Xavier,  St  Peter 
and  St.  Paul,  obtain  for  me  the  love  of  God. 

Father  Coffin  had  been  his  director,  and  all  that  he  had  seen  at 
Glapham  attracted  Augustas  to  the  Bedemptorists.  But  Francis 
Xavier  and  Aloysius,  to  whom  he  here  appeals,  seem  to  have  had  other 
views  about  him ;  and  after  a  retreat  at  Hodder  (near  Stonyhurst), 


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Augustus  Law,  8  J.  323 

<which  was  then  the  Jesuit  novioeship,  the  following  letter  was  sent  to 
this  father : — 

Hoddeb,  November  %  1853. 
My  dbab  Sib,— I  consider  that  your  son,  Augustus  Law,  has  a  decided  call  to 
^religious  life.  I  consider  it  a  duty  for  your  son,  as  soon  as  conveniently  possible,  in 
.preference  to  any  other  state  of  life,  to  embrace  some  religious  institution.  The  par- 
ticular institute  must  be  left  to  his  own  choice.  .  .  .  For  obvious  reasons  I  hare 
abstained  from  giving  more  detailed  advice  on  this  head. — With  great  respect,  yours 
•in  Christ, 

T.  T.  Clarke. 

The  writer  of  this  brief  note  was  the  Rev.  Thomas  Clarke — Father 

Tracey  Clarke,  as  he  was  generally  called  to  distinguish  him  from 

another  Jesuit  working  in  England — his  cousin,  I  think — whose  name 

also  was  Thomas  Clarke.  I  have  avoided  the  phrase  "another  English 

-Jesuit : "  for   Father  Tracey  Clarke  was  an  Irishman,  a  native  of 

Dublin,  brother  of  Dr.  Clarke,  who  was,  for  many  years,  the  medical 

attendant  of  Clongowes  College,  County  Kildare.    He  had  at  this  time 

been  for  several  years  Master  of  Novices  in  the  English  Province  of 

the  Society ;  and  he  continued  to  discharge  that  onerous  and  by  no 

means  honorary  office  till  a  short  time  before  his  holy  death,  which 

happened  on  the  1 1th  of  January,  1862.    May  he  rest  in  peace !    One 

-of  the  last  children  of  his  old  age  is  happy  in  being  able  to  pay  even 

this  passing  tribute  of  affectionate  veneration  to  the  memory  of  a 

.man  who,  in  his  day,  was  highly  esteemed  for  his  sanctity,  judgment, 

experience,  and  force  of  character. 

After  sundry  delays  and  difficulties  in  retiring  from  the  navy  and 
♦retiring  from  the  world,  Augustus  Law  entered  the  noviceehip  of  the 
-Society  of  Jesus,  in  the  first  days  of  1854 ;  and  on  the  Feast  of  the 
.Holy  Name  of  Jesus,  he  writes  to  his  father:  "I  commenced  the 
jioviciate  this  morning  and  am  very  happy.*'  A  month  later  he  writes : 
"lam  very,  very  happy  here,  and,  by  the  assistance  of  God's  grace, 
I  hope  to  live  and  die  in  the  Society  of  Jesus ; "  while  a  postscript 
adds :  "lam  getting  happier  every  day.  But  love  to  all  again.  Tou 
-can't  think  what  beautiful  exhortations  Father  Clarke  gives  us." 

A  few  years  after  the  date  which  we  have  now  reached,  another 
-of  Father  Clarke's  novices  took  down  with  Boswellian  accuracy  a  good 
,  many  of  those  spiritual  exhortations,  especially  any  picturesque 
phrase  that  struck  his  fancy.  The  "  Winged  Words,"  in  another  part 
of  this  present  issue  of  our  Magazine,*  are  samples  of  these  notes  and 
-are  given  specially  at  this  moment  as  a  link  between  the  revered  names 
of  Thomas  Tracey  Clarke  and  Augustus  Law. 

Many  of  the  letters  which  follow  in  the  third  part  of  Mr.  Law's 

anemoir  of  his  son  show,    among  other  things,  that  religious  life 

•does  not  deaden  the  affections.    The  long  and  minute  counsels  to  his 

jyoung  brother  Frederick,  who  was  just  entering  on  the  career  that  he 

•  See  <'  Winged  Words  "  at  page  312. 

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924  Augustus  Law,  8.  J. 

himself  had  abandoned,  would  furnish  many  edifying  extracts.  They 
fill  ten  pages :  "  on  attending  to  the  duties  of  religion,  on  respect  to* 
superior  officers,  on  going  on  shore,  on  swearing,  on  learning  your  pro- 
fession, on  employing  your  time."  If  it  were  not  that  his  heart  was- 
big  enough  for  ail,  he  might  be  suspected  of  cherishing  a  peculiar 
tenderness  towards  this  second  sailor-boy  of  the  family,  to  whom  he 
writes  on  September  23rd,  1862  :  "  I  hope  my  dear  Fred  keeps  up  to 
the  mark  in  his  spirituals.  Go  to  your  duty,  that's  a  dear  old  boy,, 
before  you  sail.  I  feel  great  interest  in  you,  dearest  brother,  and,  from 
the  chats  we  had  together  at  Glasgow,  I  thought  to  myself,  '  Freddy 
loves  his  religion  and  will  stick  to  it.'  " 

Go  to  your  duty — just  the  phrase  that  might  occur  in  a  letter  from, 
a  good  Irishwoman  to  her  son  studying  medicine  (for  instance)  in. 
Dublin.  Is  it  not  a  very  unconvertlike  way  of  inculcating  the  frequenta- 
tion  of  the  sacraments  ?  But  before  this  date  the  ex-midshipman  had. 
been  working  as  a  Jesuit  in  Glasgow,  and,  though  not  a  priest,  had 
probably  heard  many  an  honest  poor  Irish  sailor  say,  "  I  wasn't  atmy~ 
duty  these  three  years,  but  I'll  go  next  month,  please  God."  Father 
Law  assimilated  readily  and  naturally  more  important  points  than 
these  expressions  of  a  simple  faith.  One  of  his  prof  essors  of  theology,, 
an  Italian,  Father  Paul  Bottalla,  remarked  that  he  was  one  of  the 
most  Catholic-minded  men  he  had  ever  met. 

In  the  happy  monotony  ox  a  novice's  life  a  thrilling  interest 
attaches  to  much  less  exciting  events  than  the  bodily  removal  of  the 
Novitiate  some  hundreds  of  miles  from  the  north  to  the  south  of  a 
country.  In  1854,  this  novel  "flitting"  was  effected  by  Father- 
Clarke.  It  was,  therefore,  from  Beaumont  Lodge,  near  Windsor,  that 
the  novice  sent  home  this  report  of  himself  when  half  way  through 
his  probation,  in  the  first  week  of  1855  :  "  The  fifteenth  of  this  month 
ends  my  first  year  in  the  noviceship.  Thanks  be  to  God,  I  am  still  of 
the  same  mind,  only  much  more  strengthened  in  it  than  when  I  first 
joined,  and  I  hope,  by  the  grace  of  Jesus,  who  mercifully  brought  me- 
here,  to  live  and  die  in  this  same  dear  Society  of  His." 

Accordingly,  in  January,  1856,  the  fervent  novice  pronounced  his 
vows  of  poverty,  chastity,  and  obedience  in  the  minima  Societas  Jesu. 
I  trust  that  even  those  who  only  know  him  through  these  pages  know 
him  sufficiently  to  conjecture  the  quiet  intensity  of  the  enthusiasm.* 
with  which  he  made  this  entire  dedication  of  himself  to  the  glory  of 
God  and  the  saving  of  souls.  He  kept  nothing  back;  there  was  no- 
pilfering  in  his  holocaust. 

The  next  year  was  spent  in  France,  completing  his  classical  studies 
at  St.  Acheul,  near  Amiens ;  but  his  health  was  not  satisfactory,  and 
August,  1857,  finds  him  brought  home  to  Stonyhurst,  to  apply  himself' 
for  two  years  to  the  study  of  philosophy.  This  he  did  with  great 
earnestness  and  success.    On  All  Saints  Day,  1 859,  he  writes  from  the* 


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Augustus  Law,  S.J.  326» 

preparatory  school  at  Hodder :  "  I  am  very  happy,  have  lota  to  do* 
always,  and  I  like  my  occupation  very  much.  I  thank  God  for  the- 
happiness  I  find  here  at  Hodder.  Perhaps  God,  so  good,  has  blessed, 
the  little  place  for  the  sake  of  its  having  been  a  noviciate  for  fifty 
years." 

But  this'»Hodder  class  was  merely  a  temporary  arrangement,  and,, 
after  a  few  weeks,  his  first  regular  term  of  external  work  began  at 
Glasgow,  under  the  invocation  of  the  amiable  young  saint  whom  he 
had  so  promptly  chosen  as  his  patron,  immediately  after  his  conversion^, 
before  he  had  any  notion  of  becoming  his  brother.  To  this  period  of 
his  teaching  in  the  College  of  St.  Aloysius,  at  Glasgow,  a  letter  refers 
which  came  to  Mr.  Law  from  a  stranger  in  Canada,  after  the  publica- 
tion of  the  first  two  parts  of  his  "  beautiful  memoir  of  a  soul  for 
nobler  by  grace  than  by  birth."  We  may  venture  to  supply  the 
writer's  name,  omitted  by  Mr.  Law — Father  John  A.  Conway,  S.J. , 
of  Woodstock  College,  Maryland,  United  States. 

It  ii  now  twenty -three  yean  since  I  had  the  good  fortune  of  becoming  acquainted, 
with  your  saintly  son.  I  was  then  a  mere  child  in  his  school  in  the  Jesuit  College  of 
Glasgow,  during  his  first  years  of  teaching,  but  the  impression  he  then  made  upon  me 
by  his  pure  self-denying  life  has  never  been  effaced.  There  was  no  one  who  did  not 
lo?e  Mr.  Law,  as  we  called  him  ;  but  on  account  of  his  special  kindness  to  me,  I  am 
sure  no  one  loved  him  more  dearly  than  I  did.  He  it  was  that  prepared  me  for  my 
first  communion,  and  I  still  preser?e  in  my  bre?iary  the  little  picture  he  gave  me  on 
that  occasion.  It,  together  with  some  of  his  letters,  written  to  me  in  after  years,  are- 
my  most  precious  treasures.  To  the  deep  impression  he  made  upon  me  by  his  genuine 
piety,  and  to  the  great  interest  he  took  in  me,  I  owe,  under  God,  my  call  to  the  society 
of  which  he  was  so  exemplary  a  member.  It  is  no  slight  favour  to  be  admitted  to  life- 
long intimacy  with  so  choice  a  soul,  and  for  your  labour  of  love  I,  at  least,  feel  that  I 
owe  you  a  debt  of  gratitude.  His  life  was  just  such  a  one  as  might  be  expected — 
marvellous  in  the  working  of  grace  from  his  earliest  years,  and  under  all  circumstances. 
I  gave  your  book  to  one  of  our  fathers  to  read,  and  he  returned  it  to  me  with  the 
remark,  "  That  is  certainly  the  life  of  one  of  God's  predestined." 

His  noble  death  was  a  fitting  crown  to  his  noble  life.  Zeal  and  self-sacrifice  - 
merited  for  him  a  death  of  neglect  and  abandonment,  far  away  from  those  he  lovedV 
and  with  no  friendly  hand  to  minister  to  his  extreme  needs— a  death  terrible  in  the 
world's  eyes,  but  glorious  to  those  who  view  things  in  the  light  of  faith.  It  is  with 
reluctance  that  I  remember  him  daily,  when  I  offer  up  the  Holy  Sacrifice ;  for  did  he* 
not  lay  down  his  life  for  the  Infallible  Master  who  has  promised  the  eternal  crown  as 
#the  reward  of  such  generosity  ?  I  am  more  disposed  to  pray  to  him  than  for  him  ; 
and  I  feel  happy  in  being  able  to  revere  as  a  saint,  him  whom  I  first  learnt  to  love  ae- 
a  friend.  The  highest  ambition  of  my  religious  life  has  ever  been  to  be  like  him,  and. 
the  two  volumes  of  the  Memoirs  have  only  served  to  heighten  this  desire. 

After  three  years'  teaching  he  returned  again  to  the  class-room  to 
be  taught  himself;  beginning  his  four  years'  course  of  theology  at 
8t.  Beuno's*  College,  near  St.  Asaph,  in  North  Wales,  in  October,  1862. 
It  was  here,  the  next  year,  that  the  writer  of  these  notes,  as  he  men- 

*  This  Welsh  saint  pronounces  the  first  syllable  of  his  name  like  the  verb  "  to* 
buy/' 


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•326  Augustus  Law,  8.  J. 

Honed  at  the  beginning  of  theip,  had  the  grace  and  happiness  of  know- 
ing intimately  this  holy  man,  who  was  very  dear  to  us  all  and  whose 
holiness  had  not  a  trace  of  gloom,  or  stiffness,  or  self-  consciousness. 
A  writer  in  The  Messenger  of  the  Sacred  Heart  for  June,  1881,  putting 
together  expressly  the  reminiscences  of  several  witnesses,  speaks  thus  of 
this  part  of  his  life :  "  While  all  loved  him  for  his  thorough  goodness 
-and  innocence  of  heart,  the  scholastics  of  other  provinces — Irish, 
French,  Belgians,  and  Italians — were  not  slow  to  appreciate  his  large- 
hearted  sympathy  with  them  in  any  little  matters  which  were  more 
trying  to  strangers.  'One  and  all  carried  away  with  them/  asau 
Irish  Father  observes,  '  feelings  of  deep  affection  and  gratitude  for 
'the  unselfish  generosity  of  the  Captain,'  as  they  generally  called  him. 
No  name  is  so  affectionately  enshrined  in  the  hearts  of  our  foreign 
Fathers  as  that  of  Father  Law.9' 

In  this  beautiful  Home  of  Study  in  the  Yale  of  Clwyd  [phonetically 
€loo-id],  he  worked  from  1862  to  1866 — "  dear  old  St.  Beuno's  (he 
calls  it,  writing  home  some  years  later  from  British  Guiana),  a  place 
I  love  and  where  I  certainly  spent  the  happiest  four  years  of  my  life. 
For  where  shall  we  meet  with  more  of  ours  again,  and,  if  we  do, 
where  shall  we  meet  with  greater  charity  ?  " 

Some  little  relics  belonging  to  this  time,  which  escaped  notice  when 
•other  materials  were  sought  out  and  forwarded  to  our  friend's 
biographer,  may  be  best  placed  by  themselves  hereafter,  apart  from 
what  is  already  in  print  But  a  little  anecdote  which  I  notice  in  his 
•clear,  compact  handwriting,  may  be  copied  here  as  an  indication  of 
his  feelings  with  regard  to  the  great  epoch  in  his  life  which  was  now 
approaching.  "  St.  Francis  of  Assisi,  when  a  deacon  and  thinking  of 
becoming  a  priest,  had  a  vision,  where  an  angel  showed  him  a  vase  of 
water  as  clear  as  crystal,  to  represent  the  purity  which  becomes  a  priest. 
The  Saint  was  so  struck  with  this  that  he  would  never  be  a  priest." 

A  year  before  the  termination  of  his  theological  course,  as  is  usual, 
Augustus  Law  was  ordained  priest  The  previous  summer  he  had 
borrowed  from  his  father  the  journal  of  his  old  naval  times,  and  he 
wrote  at  the  end :  "  August  20,  1864.  Whoever  has  read  so  far  in  this 
journal  of  mine,  pray  for  me  that  I  may  persevere  in  the  Society  of 
Jesus  and  that  I  may  be  a  holy  priest.  I  have  now  been  ten  years 
and  seven  months  in  the  Society,  and  am  miles  off  being  a  true  Jesuit."* 

Mr.  Towry  Law,  of  course,  was  present  at  his  son's  ordination,  and 
prepared  by  a  spiritual  retreat  for  the  dignity  of  father  to  a  priest. 
It  was,  therefore,  several  days  before  the  ordination,  that  Augustus, 
-who  had  met  his  father  at  the  nearest  station  on  the  main  line  to 
Ireland — as  exiles  of  Erin  would  say — reported  his  safe  arrival  at 

once  to  Mrs.  Law. 

Rhyll,  Monday  afternoon^  6  o'clock. 
Dearest  May, — Here  we  are  both  sitting  in  a  Rhyll  Hotel,  and  papa  trying  what 
«he  can  matter  in  the  way  of  grub  before  starting  for  St  Asaph  and  8t  Beano's  in  one 


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Augustus  Law,  8.  J.  327 

Ihour's  time.  He  ha*  had  a  pretty  dusty  journey.  Good-bye,  for  the  present,  dearest 
May,  and  hoping  to  see  you  soon  at  Hampton  Court,  I  remain  ever  your  most 
affectionate  stepson, 

Augustus. 

This  may  seem  a  very  commonplace  note  to  quote  at  this  solemn 
-crisis  of  the  little  story  we  are  telling;  but  we  have  an.  object  in 
•quoting  it  and  following  it  up  with  another  very  domestic  epistle.  In 
describing  Father  Law's  conversion,  we  made  use  of  a  letter  written 
by  a  sister  of  his  who  became  a  Visitation  Nun ;  and  now  we  may 
•commit  a  similar  indiscretion,  with  regard  to  another  who  became  a 
-Sister  of  Mercy. 

Convent  of  Mercy,  Bebmondsey, 

September  20,  1865. 
My  dearest  Father, — I  am  glad  dearest  Augustus's  ordination  day  is  still  to 
•be  the  24th,  as  it  is  our  own  dear  feast-day.  I  am  delighted  it  is  to  be  on  that  day, 
for  I  am  sure  our  Lady  will  take  particular  care  of  him.  You  must  give  him  my 
heartfelt  congratulations,  and  tell  him  I  hare  given  him  an  intention  in  our  Novena 
in  preparation  for  the  feast.  I  shall  not  write,  as  I  shall  see  him  so  soon.  What  an 
immense  pleasure  and  consolation  for  you,  dearest  father,  to  be  present  at  bis  first 
Mass.  I  think  your  plan  a  very  good  one,  in  giving  us,  in  religion,  two  of  our 
brothers  or  sisters  to  pray  for.  As  you  say,  Maude  will  have  the  most  to  do  for  poor 
Frank.  I  am  glad  you  went  to  Su  Winifred's  Well.  .  .  .  With  affectionate  love  to 
-dearest  Augustus,  believe  me,  dearest  father,  your  most  affectionate  daughter, 

Sister  M.  Walburga  Law. 

The  family  arrangement  alluded  to  in  this  letter,  by  which  certain 
sisters  were  appointed  to  pray  for  certain  brothers,  reminds  me  of  a 
passage  in  a  letter  of  another  young  nun  of  a  different  order,  race, 
and  country.  Writing  home  from  a  far  distant  and  perilous  mission 
to  her  sister,  she  said  about  their  brother :  "  Tell  Michael  (will  you, 
Margaret?)  that  I  think  of  him  morning  and  evening,  as  I  promised; 
I  offer  his  day  to  God  with  mine,  and  I  ask  God's  pardon  for  Am  daily 
faults  as  well  as  for  my  own."  What  a  nice  way  of  putting  it!  I 
.suspect  that  in  this  partnership  the  nun's  contribution  of  faults  was 
less  numerous  and  less  grievous. 

We  must  not,  this  month,  carry  these  memorial  notes  on  Father 
Law  beyond  the  day  which  gave  him  that  title,  except  to  mention  that, 
as  his  ordination  took  place  on  the  feast  of  Our  Lady  of  Mercy,  his 
•jfirst  sermon  was  on  Rosary  Sunday.  He  had  a  singularly  tender 
•devotion  to  the  Rosary.  The  following  which  we  take  from  his  notes 
of  his  private  meditations  must  substantially  have  formed  part  of  his 
first  important  sermon : 

There  is  no  devotion  in  the  Church  sweeter  than  the  Rosary,  and  none  more 
powerful.  Why  this  is  we  now  consider.  And  first,  it  breathes  nothing  but  Jesus 
and  Mary,  than  whom  nothing  can  be  sweeter.  Its  fifteen  scenes  place  them  before  us 
and  put  us  in  their  blessed  presence.  Saying  the  Rosary  is  holding  sweet  converse 
4vith  Mary,  and  speaking  to  her  about  her  Dirine  Son,  and  about  herself.  And  what 
»n  be  more  powerful  to  keep  us  from  sin,  and  to  plant  virtue  in  us,  than  to  lire  with 


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328  Augustus  Law,  B.J. 

Jesus  and  Mary,  to  talk  with  them,  to  accustom  ourselYw  to  their  ways  of  thinking,, 
speaking,  and  acting,  which  we  do  by  being  much  in  their  company, — at  one  moment 
being  present  at  the  manger,  at  another  at  the  foot  of  the  cross,  at  another  seeing  our- 
Lord  and  His  blessed  Mother  in  heaven.  But  then  we  are  reminded  in  the  Rosary 
that  this  meditation  and  contemplation  of  our  Lord's  life  is  not  to  be  a  mere  specula- 
tion, but  it  is  to  bear  its  own  proper  fruit, — that  fruit  is  expressed  in  the  petitions  of 
the  Our  lather  and  Hail  Mary.  We  look  at  our  Lord  and  our  blessed  Lady,  and  our 
hearts  get  warmed  and  seek  for  an  outlet  in  words.  At  once  there  are  the  ardent 
petitions  of  the  Our  Father  and  Hail  Mary,  which  will  express  the  most  ardent  desires 
that  any  saint  ever  had.  In  a  word,  there  is  nothing  like  the  mysteries  of  the  Bosary 
to  excite  us  to  pray ;  nothing  like  the  two  prayers,  Pater  and  Are,  to  express  what  we 
would  pray  for.  For,  whether  you  are  in  joy  or  in  sorrow,  in  hope  or  in  fear,  near 
God  or  far  away  from  God,  still  those  two  prayers  will  always  fall  in  with  your  desires, 
and  exactly  suit  your  particular  circumstances.  But  all  this  and  much  more  is  better 
understood  by  using  the  Rosary  than  by  talking  of  its  use. 

Little  did  Father  Law  imagine  on  Rosary  Sunday,  1865,  while- 
dining  with  his  family  at  Hampton  Court  Palace,  after  his  first  sermon 
— little  did  he  dream  that  his  last  Bosary  Sunday  would  be  spent  in. 
the  midst  of  privations  which  would,  in  another  month,  cause  his  death. 
But  it  is  precisely  on  Bosary  Sunday,  fifteen  years  later,  that  the 
dying  missionary  records  as  a  great  boon  and  a  great  charity  conferred 
by  two  poor  native  Africans :  "  They  gave  me  a  bit  of  meat"  Though 
it  will  not  be  quite  intelligible  yet,  I  will  end  for  the  present  with  this- 
extract  from  the  diary  which  Augustus  Law  resumed  in  the  last  year 
of  his  life  ; 

Sunday,  October  3,  1880,  -Rosary.— Thank  God,  Brother  Hedley  is  much  better. 
Happiness  of  Mass.  Both  Isihlahla  and  Amalila  are  still  sick  with  fever.  I  wish  I. 
had  more  opportunities  of  learning  the  language,  but  it  requires  I  should  cross  the 
river  and  go  over  to  the  kraal,  and  1  am  too  weak  for  the  exertion  often.  I  went  over 
to  the  kraal  and  called  on  Intabaezi  and  Amakakp,  the  two  ambassadors,  who  have- 
been  so  kind. — They  gave  me  a  bit  of  meat 


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329    ) 


SNOW  IN  MAY. 

WHERE  be  all  the  poet's  visions  of  a  summer's  peerless  glow  P 
May  hath  come— the  minx ! — but  brought  us  leaden  clouds  and  wreaths 
of  snow! 

•  Stepping  from  the  Dents  du  midi*  to  the  infant  vines  below, 
She  hath  spread  Death's  winding  mantle  o'er  the  valleys  of  the  Vaud. 

While  I  gaze  upon  the  snow-flakes  wafted  hither  from  Tyrol, 
'Strangest  thoughts  steal  on  my  fancy — stranger  feelings  thrill  my  soul ; 

For  to  me  these  white-robed  foundlings  seem  sweet  messengers  of  love- 
Mystic  flowers  dropped  by  angels  from  the  azure  fields  above ! — 

Flowers  of  another  springtide,  far  beyond  earth's  prison-bars, 
Garnered  on  the  breast  of  planets  'mid  the  glory  of  the  stars ! 

Yet  the  full-leaved  trees  look  gruesome  in  their  weird  Siberian  pall, 
Like  the  spectres  seen  at  midnight,  in  some  lone  ancestral  hall ; 

-But  the  summer  zephyr  cometh,  sly  and  furtive,  from  the  hills — 
Breathing  balm  upon  the  vineyards,  and  a  blessing  on  the  rills ; 

Then  he  rushes,  clad  in  anger,  o'er  the  plaintive  dells  and  leas — 
■  Sweeping  icicles  and  snow-flakes  from  the  branches  of  the  tiees. 

Loudly  laugh  the  stately  lindens  in  a  "gaudeamw!  "  meet, 

As  they  see  the  white  wreaths  falling  on  the  heather  at  their  feet ! 

And  they  seem  to  thank  the  zephyr — rustling  gaily  to  and  fro, 
-  Chaunting :  "  Praises  to  the  west  wind— he  hath  saved  us  from  the  snow ! " 

Where  be  all  the  poet's  visions,  like  his  dreams  long,  long  ago  P 
.  Ah,  for  him  they're  wrapped  and  buried  in  bleak  cerements  of  snow ! 

Yet,  methinks,  although  his  future  "—lit  with  dim  despairing  gleams— 
May  be  peopled  with  chimeras  grim  as  satyrs  seen  in  dreams. 

:  Summer  waits  him  on  the  threshold,  ready  with  Life's  counterpart, 
Sweeping  care  and  melancholy  from  the  deserts  of  his  heart  1 

Then  he  scales  the  heights  Olympian — he  hath  reached  the  destined  goal, 
While  a  Maytide's  "  gaudeamus  !  "  wakes  the  echoes  of  his  soul ! 

Wherefore  be  it  that  these  snow-wreaths,  flitting,  floating  spirit- wise, 
-May  be  bouquets  sent  to  greet  him  from  the  springtide  in  the  skies ! 

Eugene  Davis. 

*  A  range  of  mountains  overlooking  Lake  Leman. 

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NEW  BOOKS. 

Mb.  Fredebick  Pustet,  the  great  ecclesiastical  publisher,  whose  chief 
establishment  at  Ratisbon,  in  Germany,  has  branches  so  far  away  as- 
New  York  and  Cincinnati,  has  published,  in  five  volumes,  a  new  work 
on  canon  law — "  Prselectiones  Juris  Canonici  "—of  which  pages  like* 
ours  can  hardly  venture  to  give  any  account  except  to  call  attention  to- 
them,  as  the  most  recent  authority  on  the  subject.  The  author  is 
Francis  Santi,  Professor  in  the  Pontifical  Seminary  at  Home,  and  his 
work  appears  with  the  official  sanction  of  the  Pope's  Vicar,  Cardinal 
Parocchi.  To  those  of  our  readers  whom  it  conoerns,  this  information 
is  sufficient. 

A  somewhat  larger  class  of  our  readers  will  be  interested  in  the 
publication  of  a  new  work  in  pastoral  theology  by  the  author  of  "  Pro- 
grammes of  Sermons  and  Instructions."  It  is  entitled  "  Pax  Vobis : 
being  a  Popular  Exposition  of  the  Seven  Sacraments,  furnishing  ready 
matter  for  public  instruction,  and  suitable  at  the  same  time  for  private* 
or  family  reading."  It  is  prefaced  by  a  very  cordial  letter  of  appro- 
bation from  the  Archbishop  of  Dublin,  whose  authoritative  testimony 
is  enough  to  show  us  how  worthy  this  work  is  of  its  predecessors,  and 
how  successfully  the  learned  and  pious  author  has  carried  out  the- 
objects  mentioned  on  his  titlepage.  The  paper  and  printing  are  of 
the  high  excellence  that  Messrs.  Browne  and  Nolan  have  led  us  to 
expect  in  their  publications. 

One  of  the  most  splendid  volumes  that  have  ever  been  laid  on  our 
table  is  "The  End  of  Man.  By  Albany  James  Christie,  S.J." 
(London  :  Kegan  Paul,  Trench,  and  Co.)  It  is  a  poem  in  four  books, 
developing  with  great  exactness  and  fulness,  in  due  order,  the  Spiritual 
Exercises  of  St.  Ignatius,  the  four  books  corresponding  with  the  four 
"  weeks  "  into  which  a  complete  Retreat  is  technically  divided.  The 
metre  chosen  is  the  ordinary  heroic  verse  of  Pope,  arranged  in  triplets. 
The  grave  and  dignified  measure  is  well  suited  to  the  solemn  themes 
discussed,  and  the  monotony  which  cannot  be  avoided  is  partly  remedied 
by  the  interlacing  of  stanzas,  in  which  the  sense  is  not  allowed  to  be 
completed  at  the  end  of  each  triplet,  but  made  to  run  on  from  one  into 
another.  The  ear  is  relieved  also  by  the  recurrence  of  certain  refrains, 
such  as  the  lines  which  represent  the  well-known  prayer  Anima  Chruti. 
The  eight  thousand  lines  which  fill  this  royal  quarto  are  the  fruit  of 
many  years  of  pious  meditation,  and,  apart  from  their  high  merit  as 
poetry,  form  a  valuable  commentary  on  the  text  of  the  Exercitia 
Spiritualia.  The  distinctive  features,  for  instance,  of  the  contempla- 
tions on  the  Kingdom  of  Christ  and  of  the  Two  Standards  are  well 


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Notes  on  New.  Books.  331 

brought  out;  and  the  Three  Degrees  of  Humility  are  expounded 
without  any  leaning  towards  that  common  but  erroneous  interpretation 
which  Father  Caswall  has  put  into  rhyme.  With  such  thick,  ample- 
pages,  and  such  stately  binding,  and  with  illustrations  few,  but  worthy, 
we  are  astonished  that  the  price  of  this  volume  is  not  twice  as  high  as 
we  have  seen  it  stated  to  be  in  an  advertisement. 

Another  volume  of  religious  verse,  much  less  sumptuously  produced, 
but  in  a  manner  well  suited  to  its  practical  aims,  is  the  new  series  of 
"Verses  on  Doctrinal  and  Devotional  Subjects,"  by  the  Rev.  James 
Casey,  F.F.  of  Athleague,  in  the  Diocese  of  Elphin.  Father  Casey'* 
previous  publications  have  gained  a  large  amount  of  favour;  and  we 
think  the  present  volume  is  equal  to  the  best  that  has  gone  before  it  in 
variety  of  theme,  in  freedom  and  accuracy  of  versification,  and  in  the 
simple  and  fervent  piety  which  animates  the  whole.  The  success  which 
awaits  this  new  venture  will,  we  are  sure,  force  the  poet-pastor  to 
relent  in  the  decree  which  he  threatens  at  the  end  of  his  preface,  though 
with  no  very  stern  determination.  This  book  of  verses  will  not  behislast*. 

Miss  Alice  Wilmot  Chetwode  has  exercised  her  very  considerable 
skill  as  a  translator  upon  two  French  works  of  very  different  character, 
both  translations  being  well  brought  out  by  Messrs.  M.  H.  Gill  and 
Son.  The  first  is  "The  Valiant  Woman *— " La Femme  Forte,"  of 
Monseigneur  Landriot,  late  Archbishop  of  Bheims.  Ladies  of  educa- 
tion and  intelligence  will  read  these  conferences  with  much  pleasure 
and  advantage.  They  are  solid  and  at  the  same  time  unusually  enter- 
taining. Miss  Chetwode  has  done  her  part  admirably.  We  have 
examined  her  execution  here  more  carefully  than  in  the  other  translation 
— "  The  Castle  of  Coetquen,"  by  Raoul  de  Navery.  The  lady  who- 
wrote  under  that  name  has  an  established  reputation  in  France  and 
Belgium  as  a  purveyor  of  pleasant  and  innocuous  fiction;  and  we  have 
good  external  evidence  that  the  present  is  a  favourable  sample  of  ber 
handicraft  favourably  presented  to  us. 

Messrs.  Ticknor  and  Co.,  of  Boston,  are  bringing  out  a  very 
interesting  work,  sure  to  be  welcomed  in  our  Catholic  educational 
institutions,  entitled  "  Christian  Symbols,  and  Stories  of  the  Saints.'* 
It  is  by  a  well-known  art  writer,  Mrs.  Clara  Erskine  Clement,, 
author  of  "Handbook  of  Legendary  Art,"  "Handbook  of  Painters 
and  Sculptors,"  &c.  Associated  with  Mrs.  Clement  in  this  work  is 
Miss  Katharine  E.  Conway,  of  the  editorial  staff  of  The  Boston  Pilot. 

The  Irish  Ecclesiastical  Record  for  May,  1886,  bestows  warm  praise 
on  a  work  in  which  many  of  our  readers  are  interested — "  The  Birth- 
day Book  of  our  Dead  " — of  which  also  the  following  notice  was  lately 
given  in  The  Tablet : — 

The  compiler  of  this  attractive  little  book  has  turned  a  familiar  idea  to  new  and 
happy  account.  Popular  as  they  have  been  of  late  yean,  the  exact  raison  cCitre  of 
the  ordinary  "  birthday  books  "  was  never  perfectly  clear ;  and  certainly  it  was  not 


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332  Note*  on  New  Books. 

-commonly  understood  that  they  were  intended  for  any  pious  purpose.  The  book 
before  us  is  designed  to  serve  as  a  record  of  departed  friends,  formed  on  the  plan  of 
4b  birthday  book.  A  page  is  given  up  to  every  day  in  the  year,  part  of  which  is  left 
blank  to  enter  the  names  of  our  dead  at  the  date  of  their  entrance  into  rest;  while 
the  remainder  contains  appropriate  readings  in  prose  and  verse,  taken  chiefly  from 
"Catholic  and  religious  sources,  including  numbers  of  maxims  from  the  saints  and 
spiritual  writers.  The  sources  of  these  selections  have  been  as  various  as  may  be. 
For  instance,  if  we  take,  quite  at  random,  the  present  month  of  April,  we  find  that 
-the  list  of  writers  includes  Father  Faber,  Tennyson,  Mrs.  Craven,  Mgr.  Gilbert, 
Leigh  Hunt,  Father  Ryder,  Lord  Beaoonsfield,  Ben  Jonson,  St.  Francis  de  Sales,  D. 
F.  MaoCarthy,  Adelaide  Procter,  Charles  Dickeus,  Bugenie  de  Guerin,  Moore,  Barry 
'Cornwall,  Frederio  Ozanam,  Pere  de  Bavignan,  Mrs.  Barbauld,  Miss  Katharine 
Tynan,  Lady  Wilde,  Miss  Emily  Bowles,  St.  John  Chrysostom,  Charles  Lamb,  St. 
Augustine,  Aubrey  de  Vera,  Father  Matthew  Russell,  S.  J.,  Dr.  Pusey,  St.  Catharine 
of  Sienna,  and  Mgr.  Gerbet  It  will  thus  be  seen  that  the  little  book  contains  the  result 
of  a  wide  and  varied  reading,  and  it  must  be  added  that  this  has  been  turned  to 
•excellent  account.  This  birthday  book  will,  we  are  sure,  become  very  popular  among 
Catholics*  as  well  as  among  many  outside  the  Church  who  have  learned  in  some 
•degree  the  doctrine  of  the  Communion  of  Saints. 

The  American  Redemptorists  are  bringing  out  a  Centenary  Edition, 
in  English,  of  the  Ascetical  and  Moral  Works  of  their  Founder,  St. 
Alphonsus  Liguori,  which  will  occupy  seventeen  good-sized  volumes. 
The  editor  isjthe  Rev.  Eugene  Grimm,  C.SS.R.,  and  the  publishers 
Benziger  Brothers,  of  New  York,  St.  Louis,  and  Cincinnati.  The 
Preparation  for  Death,  and  a  few  smaller  treatises  form  the  first  volume, 
-produced  with  that  ponderous  binding  and  that  glossy  paper  which 
seem  to  delight  book -buyers  in  the  United  States.  It  is  well  that 
such  saintly  writings  should  be  propagated  in  every  form. 

The  "  Life  of  Margaret  Clitherow,"  by  Miss  Letitia  Selwyn  Oliver 
'(Burns  and  Oates),  is  not  quite  so  good  as  Father  John  Morris's 
extremely  interesting  preface  would  lead  one  to  expect,  but  it  is  much 
letter  than  one  might  fear  from  the  opening  sentence,  which  with  its 
"'  solitary  horseman,"  reminds  one  of  "  the  late  Mr.  G.  P.  R.  James." 
Miss  Oliver  calls  her  book  simply  the  Life  of  Margaret  Clitherow,  but 
she  has  attempted  to  give  it  the  form  of  a  novel,  which  throws  a 
suspicious  air  on  details  that  have  really  been  sought  out  diligently  in 
authentic  records.  It  would  require,  if  not  a  Walter  Scott,  at  least  a 
Georgiana  Fullerton,  to  make  this  blending  of  fact  and  fiction  quite 
successful ;  but  Miss  Oliver's  contribution  to  English  Catholic  litera- 
ture has  far  more  merit  than  several  similar  works  which  have  gained 
•considerable  reputation.  This  neat  volume  will,  of  course,  have 
additional  interest  for  those  who  are  familiar  with  the  various  places 
linked  with  the  memory  of  the  brave  Elizabethan  martyr  of  Ouse 
Bridge. 

No  more  seasonable  moment  could  have  been  chosen  by  Mr.  W.  J. 
O'Neill  Daunt  for  the  publication  of  a  collection  of  his  "Essays  on 
Ireland  "  (M.  H.  Gill  and  Son),  which  have  appeared  at  various  dates 
in  the  Dublin  Review,  the  Contemporary  Review,  and  other  periodicals. 


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Note*  on  New  Booh,  633 

The  reader  might,  perhaps,  have  been  assisted  by  a  closer  adherence  to 
chronological  order  than  appears  in  the  following  enumeration  of  the 
subjects  discussed ;  "  Ireland  under  the  Legislative  Union,  Ireland  in 
the  time  of  Swift,  How  the  Union  robs  Ireland,  The  Irish  Difficulty, 
Tithe  Bent-charge  in  Ireland,  Ireland  in  the  time  of  Grattan,  The 
History  and  Financial  Results  of  the  Union,  the  Vioeroyalty,  England 
in  the  Eighteenth  Century,  and  the  Disestablishment  of  the  State 
Church."  Mr.  O'Neill  Daunt,  of  Kiloascan,  made  his  mark  as  an  Irish 
political  writer  more  than  forty  years  ago,  and  his  latest  publication  is 
another  proof  of  the  inspired  proverb,  "  A  young  man  according  to 
his  way,  even  when  he  is  old,  he  will  not  depart  from  it" 

"  That  day  he  overcame  the  Nervii."  We  are  reminded  of  the 
marvellous  speech  that  Shakespeare  makes  for  Mark  Antony,  when  we 
*ee  Tournay,  in  Belgium,  represented  by  "  Tornacum  Nerviorum,"  on 
the  title-page  of  an  admirable  Parvwm  Missale,  published  by  Desctee, 
Lefebvre,  and  Co.,  otherwise  known  as  the  Imprimerie  Liturgique  de 
St  Jean  l'Evang61iste.  This  is  by  far  the  cheapest  and  most  service- 
able Latin  Missal  that  we  have  seen ;  and  we  wish  it  had  been  further 
cheapened  by  the  omission  of  pictures  and  needless  ornamentation. 
In  ecclesiastical  seminaries,  and  even  in  ordinary  schools,  this  little 
missal  will,  we  trust,  be  in  great  request ;  and  priests  also,  and  many 
laymen,  will  be  glad  to  have  the  Missale  Romanum  in  a  form  so  com- 
*nodious  and  portable. 

A  still  more  exquisite  piece  of  typography  from  the  same  press,  is 
the  Sancti  Anselmi  Mariale,  edited  by  Father  Ragey,  who  claims  for 
.fit.  Anselm  the  authorship  of  what  has  been  known  as  the  Hymn  of 
St  Oasimir,  Omm  die  die  Mariae.  The  complete  edition  consists  of 
thirteen  hymns,  each  containing  some  thirty  or  forty  of  these  wonder- 
fully rhymy  stanzas.  This  little  book  is  a  very  jewel  of  devotion  to 
the  Blessed  Mother  of  God. 

The  Rev.  Edward  Cuthbert  Butler,  O.S.B.,  M.A.,  Classical  Master 
4tt  Downside  College  has  reprinted,  in  a  sixpenny  pamphlet  from  the 
Downside  Review,  some  papers  to  which  he  gives  the  heading  "  Mon- 
seigneur  Dupanloup  on  Liberal  Education,9'  but  which  embrace  a 
wider  range  of  subjects,  namely  the  Groundwork  of  Liberal  Education, 
a  Lesson  from  Berlin,  Examinations  and  Cramming,  Culture  and 
Viewiness,  and  Utilitarianism  in  Education.  These  topics  are  illustrated 
not  only  from  the  educational  writings  of  the  Bishop  of  Orleans,  but 
very  copiously  from  Caadinal  Newman,  Dr.  Whewell,  Stuart  Mill,  and 
•other  practical  authorities.  The  abundant  quotations,  in  small  type, 
from  the  illustrious  Oratorian  which  light  up  many  of  these  pages  are 
worth  far  more  than  the  half-dozen  pence  charged  for  the  whole.  In 
preparing  this  reprint,  greater  prominence  ought  to  have  been  given 
to  an  article  referred  to  more  than  onoe— the  recent  dissertation  in  The 
Month  on  "Education  and  School/*  by  Father  John  Gerard,  S.J., 

Vol.  xiv.  No.  156.  25 


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334  Notes  on  New  Books. 

who  wields,  we  think,  the  liveliest  pen  that  ie  at  the  service  of  Catho- 
lic literature,  since  Father  Frederick  Hathaway  became  a  West  Indian 
Missionary.  Some  of  onr  readers  have  still,  no  doubt,  after  many 
years,  a  vivid  recollection  of  Father  Hathaway's  brilliant  exposure  of 
certain  proselytising  agencies  in  and  near  Dublin,  under  the  title  of 
"  Irish  Birds9  Nests."  Sinoe  then  our  periodical  literature  has  had  no- 
such  readable  writing  as  Father  Gerard's.  Dom  Butler  does  not  aim 
at  such  brilliancy ;  but  the  solid  merits  of  his  papers  on  education' 
make  them  useful  not  only  for  professors,  but  for  students  and  even* 
schoolboys. 

The  present  writer  remembers  the  distant  time  when  he  had  to 
save  up  half  a  year's  pocket-money  to  buy  Moore's  Irish  Melodist  r 
and  here,  for  three  pence  Messrs.  M.  H.  Gill  and  Son  give  in  a  large 
and  clear  type,  a  much  more  complete  edition,  as  the  third  volume  of 
their  O'Oonnell  Press  Popular  Library. 

The  Catholic  Truth  Society,  18  West  Square,  London,  S.E.,  has 
published  for  a  penny  Mr.  James  Britten's  exceedingly  useful  and 
practical  essay  on  "  Catholic  Lending  Libraries,"  and  also  "  St.  George,- 
Protector  of  England,"  by  the  Rev.  J.  W.  Reeks ;  while  for  twopence 
they  give  Canon  Croft's  able  essay  on  the  Continuity  of  the  English 
Church. 

Messrs.  James  Duffy  and  Sons  have  sent  us  their  useful  little  book 
for  the  Jubilee  of  1886,  and  Mr.  P.  Goodman's  ••  Catholic  School 
Hymn  Book,"  a  collection  of  English  and  Latin  hymns,  with  music  in 
tonic  sol-fa  notation,  for  use  in  Catholic  schools  and  choirs. 

We  hardly  know  for  what  class  of  readers  "  The  Following  of 
Christ,  by  John  Tauler,  done  into  English,  by  J.  R.  Morell "  (Burns 
and  Oatee),  is  intended.  The  very  neat  garb  whioh  the  publishers- 
have  given  to  it  might  lead  one  to  think  that  it  is  meant  for  the  daily 
use  of  devout  persons,  whereas  it  is  not  fitted  at  all  for  the  ordinary 
purposes  of  devotion,  but  belongs  to  what  might  be  called  antiquarian 
asceticism ;  and  for  this  latter  purpose,  also,  the  translating  and  editing 
to  which  the  quaint  old  treatise  has  here  been  submitted,  appear  some* 
what  inadequate.  How  differently  a  page  of  it  reads  from  a  page  of 
the  real "  Following  of  Christ,"  by  Thomas  aKempis,  which  is  for  all 
times  and  all  countries,  and  can  never  grow  obsolete. 

The  Rev.  J.  A.  Cullen,  S.J.,  has  published  through  M.  H.  Gill  and 
Son,  "  The  Sodality  Manual,  or  a  Collection  of  Prayers  and  Spiritual 
Exercises  for  the  Members  of  the  Sodality  of  the  Blessed  Virgin  Mary 
affiliated  to  the  Congregation  Prima  Primaria,  founded  in  the  Roman- 
College  of  the  Society  of  Jesus.1'  Beside  the  usual  devotions  given  in 
the  best  compilations  of  prayers,  this  very  carefully  arranged  volume 
contains  many  instructions  not  readily  to  be  found  elsewhere,  m 
addition  to  the  special  rules  and  devout  exercises  of  the  sodalities  to* 
which  it  is  specially  but  not  exclusively  adapted. 


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Something  about  Sonnets.  335 

We  must  not  wait  till  next  month  to  say  that  the  hurried  glance 
that  we  have,  at  the  last  moment,  thrown  oyer  a  few  pages  of  "  The 
Life  of  Henrietta  Kerr,  Religions  of  the  Sacred  Heart "  (Burns  and 
Oates),  showB  that  we  have  here  one  of  the  holiest  and  most  exquisite 
pieces  of  contemporary  biography.  Of  course,  our  readers  will  hear 
of  it  again  from  us ;  but  w«  trust  that  the  book  will  already  haye 
become  familiar  to  many  of  them. 


SOMETHING  ABOUT  SONNETS. 
By  the  Editor. 

THIS  Magazine  would  haye  little  difficulty  in  establishing  its 
claim  to  the  distinction  of  being  the  most  beeonneted  periodi- 
cal in  the  world.  We  haye  just  gone  oyer  the  annual  volumes, 
sinoe  it  began  its  course  fourteen  years  ago,  and  we  find  three 
sonnets  in  the  first  yolume,  none  in  the  second,  and  four  in  the 
third ;  but  then  the  contagion  spreads,  and  from  the  year  1876  to 
1881,  the  numbers  in  due  succession  are  16,  17,  20,  28, 12,  and  29. 
In  1882  and  1883  the  production  of  sonnets  fell  to  11  and  8 
respectively,  while  in  the  following  year  the  total  output  seems  to 
have  been  a  solitary  sonnet  Last  year  the  number  rose  to  nine ; 
and  the  current  volume  would  find  it  easy  to  outtop  the  highest 
figure  and  complete  a  total  of  two  hundred  sonnets. 

This  calculation  has  been  made  as  a  reason  for  attempting  to 
enable  a  larger  number  of  our  readers  to  take  an  intelligent 
interest  in  a  species  of  poetical  composition  which  is  distasteful 
even  to  many  who  have  a  fair  relish  for  poetry.  With  those,  of 
courete,  who  prof ess,  as  M.  de  Pontmartin  says,  "une  horreur 
eyst&natique  pour  les  vers,"  the  sonnet  is  the  object  of  peouliar 
contempt  and  abhorrence,  although  it  might  plead,  in  mitigation, 
that  it  occupies  but  little  space.  Now,  like  many  good  things,  the 
sonnet  is  loved  most  by  those  who  understand  it  best,  and  hated  or 
despised  by  those  who  misunderstand  it.  Indeed,  we  might  venture 
to  apply  to  it  the  observation  which  we  have  heard,  but  never  read> 
about  a  certain  "little  girl,  who  had  a  little  curl,  which  hung 
down  the  middle  of  her  forehead,  and,  when  she  was  good,  she 
was  awfully  good,  but,  when  she  was  bad,  she  was  horrid."    Even 


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336  Something  about  Sonnets. 

thus  also,  when  a  sonnet  is  good,  it  is,  if  not  "  awfully/9  at  least 
very  good,  but,  when  bad,  it  is  little  short  of  "horrid/'  As 
Cassiodorus  says  of  Origen :  "  ubi  bene,  nemo  melius ;  ubi  male, 
nemo  pejus." 

To  be  really  good,  a  sonnet  must  be  good  in  substance  and  good 
in  form.  Let  us  begin  with  the  form,  the  anatomy,  the  organic 
structure  of  the  sonnet.  Our  remarks  shall  be  very  elementary ; 
for  the  present  paper  is  for  beginners  and  may  be  considered  one 
of  those  "  easy  lessons  in  verse-writing  "  with  which  we  have  some- 
times threatened  contributors  and  would-be  contributors,  who 
seemed  not  to  know  the  difference  between  a  trochee  and  an 
iambus. 

It  is  a  great  saving  of  time  and  trouble  to  master  a  few  techni- 
cal terms  at  the  start ;  and  the  structure  of  a  sonnet  is  most 
conveniently  described  by  words  which  have  a  rather  pedantic 
sound.  We  are  speaking  of  that  form  of  sonnet  which  now-a-dayB 
is  generally  understood  by  the  name  of  Petrarchan*  sonnet. 
Every  one  who  is  likely  to  read  these  pages  knows  that  a  sonnet 
consists  of  fourteen  lines ;  and  that  in  English  each  of  those  lines 
is  the  ordinary  heroic  verse,  as  it  is  called,  like  any  line  of 
Milton's  "Paradise  Lost,"  of  Pope's  "Essay  on  Man,"  of  Gold- 
smith's "Deserted  Village,"  of  Moore's  "Veiled  Prophet  of 
Xhorassan,"  of  Longfellow's  "King  Robert  of  Sicily,"  or  of 
Allingham's  "Laurence  Bloomfield  in  Ireland."  This  ordinary 
heroic  line  consists  of  five  iambics ;  that  is,  each  pair  of  syllables,  out 
of  the  ten  syllables  which  make  up  the  line,  has  the  accent  or  stress 
of  the  voice  falling  on  its  second  syllable.  In  other  words  each  of 
the  fourteen  decasyllabic  lines  is  accented  on  the  alternate  syllables. 
But  a  poem  consisting  of  fourteen  lines  of  this  sort  would  not  be 
a  sonnet  There  would  be  no  oneness,  completeness,  finality  about 
it,  to  constitute  it  a  special  entity.  Leigh  Hunt,  who  knew  Petrarch 
well  and  was  so  full  of  the  Italian  spirit,  can  surely  not  have 
intended  "  The  Angel  in  the  House  "  for  a  sonnet  But  it  is  very 
suspicious  that  among  a  score  of  sonnets  of  the  strictest  Petrarchan 
form,  we  find  another  little  poem,  addressed  to  Charles  Dickens, 
consisting  also  of  exactly  fourteen  lines,  with  no  attempt  at  sonnet- 
form,  but  just  seven  ordinary  oouplets,  each  with  its  independent 
rhyme.    And  yet,  if  the  poet  has  said  all  he  wanted  to  say  in  seven 

*  Mr*  Sharp,  whose  excellent  collection,  "  Sonnets  of  this  Century,"  we 
referred  to  in  March,  and  shall  often  refer  to  again,  calls  the  poet  "Petrarca,'' 
and  spells  the  adjective  u  Petrarcan ; "  but,  surely,  he  is  naturalised  among  us  as 
*4  Petrarch  "  and  the  English  adjective  is  "  Petrarchan." 


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Something  about  Sonnets.  337 

heroic  couplets,  it  seems  hard  to  make  him  add  another,  in  order  to 
avoid  the  appearance  of  having  intended  a  sonnet.  That  the 
greeting  to  Household  Words  is  placed  among  the  sonnets,  may  have 
been  some  editor's  mistake.  As  an  example  of  a  poem  of  fourteen 
lines,  which,  nevertheless,  is  not  a  sonnet,  let  us  give  this  "  Angel 
in  the  House."  In  Forster's  "  Life  of  Dickens  "  we  are  told  that 
Leigh  Hunt  took  the  idea  from  Dickens's  epitaph  on  his  wife's 
youngest  sister,  Mary  Hogarth:  "Young,  beautiful,  and  good, 
God  in  His  mercy  placed  her  among  his  angels  in  her  eighteenth 
year/'  In  1848,  Dickens  writes:  "  This  day  eleven  years,  poor, 
dear  Mary  died." 

How  sweet  it  were,  if  without  feeble  fright, 
Or  dying  of  the  dreadful  beauteous  sight, 
An  angel  came  to  us,  and  we  could  bear 
To  see  him  issue  through  the  silent  air 
At  evening  in  our  rooms,  and  bend  on  ours 
His  divine  eyes,  and  bring  us  from  his  bowers, 
News  of  dear  friends  and  children  who  have  never 
Been  dead  indeed,  as  we  shall  know,  for  ever. 

Alas !  we  think  not  what  we  daily  see 
About  our  hearths — angels  that  are  to  be  ; 
Or  may  be,  if  they  will,  and  we  prepare 
.  Their  souls  and  ours  to  meet  in  happy  air— 
A  child,  a  wife,  a  friend,  whose  soft  heart  sings 
In  unison  with  ours,  breeding  its  future  wings. 

An  additional  reason  for  imagining  that  the  poet  really  meant 
this  guatorzaine  for  a  sonnet,  is,  that  he  introduces  a  long  pause 
just  where  it  ought  to  be,  at  the  end  of  the  eighth  line.  For  a 
legitimate  Italian  sonnet  consists  of  two  parts.  The  first  eight 
lines  are  often,  for  shortness'  sake,  called  the  octave,  and  the  last  six 
lines  the  sestet ;  but  there  is  no  use  dignifying  these  two  divisions 
with  the  title  of  major  and  minor  systems,  and  it  is  more  con 
venient  to  speak  of  them  as  two  quatrains  and  two  tercets. 

The  two  quatrains  are  almost  always  arranged  like  the  stanzas 
of  In  Memoriam;  but,  of  course,  in  Tennyson's  poem,  the  lines 
are  shorter  by  two  syllables.  Also,  it  is  desirable  and  almost 
obligatory  to  have  only  two  rhyme-sounds  in  all  the  eight  lines ; 
namely,  the  1st,  4th,  5th,  and  8th,  all  rhyming  together,  and  the 
2nd,  3rd,  6th,  and  7th.  English  sonneteers,  even  of  the  strictest 
observance,  allow  sometimes  a  new  third  rhyme  for  the  6th  and 
7th  lines. 

The  two  tercets  which  complete  the  sonnets  are  allowed  either 
two  or  three  rhymes,  and  these  may  be  arranged  in  many  different 

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338  Something  about  Sonnets. 

ways,  but  the  most  approved  is,  to  have  thtee  distinct  rhymes  in 
the  first  three  lines,  and  then  the  three  corresponding  rhymes  in 
the  same  order,  or  else  with  that  order  exactly  reversed.  When 
only  two  rhymes  are  nsed  in  the  tercets,  let  the  six  lines  rhyme 
alternately  and  not  in  couplets.  Most  experts  dislike  to  have  the 
last  two  lines  rhyming  together,  for  they  contend  that  this  ending 
has  an  epigrammatic  sound.  It  gives  the  little  poem  the  air  of 
winding  up  with  a  self-satisfied  smirk,  as  if  it  were  an  overgrown 
Spenserian  stanza.  Yet,  for  all  that,  many  an  excellent  sonnet 
ends  with  this  forbidden  couplet.  As  regards  this  little  point,  and 
also  for  their  own  sake,  let  us  contrast  four  sonnets  on  prayer.  The 
first  is  by  Hartley  Coleridge,  the  gifted  but  weak-willed  son  of  the 
Ancient  Mariner. 

Be  not  afraid  to  pray — to  pray  is  right. 

Pray,  if  thou  canst,  with  hope ;  but  ever  pray, 

Though  hope  be  weak,  or  sick  with  long  delay. 
Pray  in  the  darkness  if  there  be  no  light. 
Far  is  the  time}  remote  from  human  sight, 

When  war  and  discord  on  the  earth  shall  cease ; 

Yet  every  prayer  for  universal  peace 
Avails  the  blessed  time  to  expedite. 
What  it  is  good  to  wish,  ask  that  of  heaven, 

Though  it  be  what  thou  canst  not  hope  to  see. 
Pray  to  be  perfect,  though  material  leaven 

Forbid  the  spirit  so  on  earth  to  be. 
But  if  for  any  wish  thou  darest  not  pray, 
Then  pray  to  God  to  cast  that  wish  away. 

Let  us  contrast  with  this  another  sonnet  on  prayer,  by  Arch- 
bishop Trench,  who  was  lately  buried  in  Westminster  Abbey. 
Richard  Chenevix  Trench  was  a  very  pure  and  refined  poet,  and  we 
are  glad  to  claim  him  as  an  Irishman. 

Lord,  what  a  change  within  us  one  short  hour 

Spent  in  Thy  presence  will  prevail  to  make, 

What  heavy  burdens  from  our  bosoms  take, 
What  parched  ground  refresh,  aa  with  a  shower ! 
We  kneel,  and  all  around  us  seems  to  tower ; 

We  rise,  and  all,  the  distant  and  the  near, 

Stands  forth  in  sunny  outline,  brave  and  clear. 
We  kneel,  how  weak ! — we  rise*  how  full  of  power 

Why,  therefore,  should  we  do  ourselves  the  wrong*— 
Or  others — that  we  are  not  always  strong? 
That  we  are  ever  overborne  with  care, 

That  we  should  ever  weak  or  heartless  be, 
Anxious  or  troubled,  when  with  us  is  prayer, 

And  joy  and  strength  and  courage  are  with  Thee  P 

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Something  about  Sonnets.  389 

That  seems  to  me  a  simpler  and  stronger  ending,  more  like  a 
sonnet  and  less  like  an  epigram,  than  if  it  ended  with  a  couplet ; 
and  I  think  the  couplet  with  which  the  sestet  begins,  spoils  the 
49onnnet-f  orm  a  little.  Why  did  the  author  of  "  The  Study  of 
Words  "  use  heartless  in  the  peculiar  sense  it  seems  to  bear  in  the  last 
tercet — not  " unfeeling,"  but  "disheartened,"  "without  spirit  or 
strength  P  "  The  fifth  line  hardly  makes  its  meaning  clear  enough ; 
which  of  course  is  that,  before  we  kneel  in  prayer,  difficulties  and 
temptations  rise  up  high  and  terrible,  but,  when  we  have  knelt 
and  prayed,  and  rise  up  from  prayer,  we  see  things  in  their  true 
proportions,  both  the  things  around  us  and  before  us,  temporal  and 
eternal  things.  The  outward  little  phrase,  interjected  into  the 
tenth  line,  is  a  reproach  to  ourselves  for  neglecting  prayer  and 
other  resources  of  graces,  and  so  doing  wrong  to  others,  by  leaving 
ourselves  less  qualified  to  do  them  good. 

"  We  want  f aith  in  prayer.  We  want  faith  in  prayer !  "  was  a 
frequent  saying  of  an  Archbishop  of  another  sort,  who  probably 
never  wrote  a  line  of  verse — Cardinal  Cullen's  holy  successor  in 
the  Primacy,  Dr.  Dixon.  It  is  well  to  learn  something  about 
prayer,  even  in  sonnets,  and  I  will  fulfil  my  threat  of  giving  four 
sonnets  on  prayer.  But,  by  way  of  variety  I  will  seize  this  excuse 
for  following  up  Archbishop  Trench  with  his  successor,  Lord 
Plunket,  from  whom  for  more  reasons  than  one,  we  should  never 
expect  such  a  piece  as  "  The  Patriot's  Rebuke." 

Te  sons  of  Erin  I  who  despise 

The  motherland  that  hare  you, 
Who  nothing  Irish  love  or  prize, 

Give  ear,  1  will  not  spare  you  1 
The  stranger's  jeer  I  do  not  fear, 

But  can  I  pardon  ever 
Those  who  revile  their  native  Isle  P 

Oh !  never,  never,  never  1 

That  persons  so  refined  and  grand 

As  you  are,  should  belong  to 
This  very  low  and  vulgar  land 

Is  sad, and  very  wrong  tool 
But  'tis  too  late  to  mend  your  fate, . 

Irish  you  are  for  ever — 
Yonll  wipe  that  shame  from  off  your  name, 

Oh  1  never,  never,  never  t 

Well,  then,  what  do  you  hope  to  win, 

In  spite  of  all  your  labours, 
By  meanly  cutting  kith  and  kio 

And  courting  prouder  neighbours  f 

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340  Sotnething  about  Sonnets* 

Ah  no !  dear  sirs,  he  sadly  em 
Who  tries  to  be  too  clever ; 

Mark  what  I  say,  it  will  not  pay — 
Oh !  never,  never,  never ! 

From  Irish  soil  you  love  to  roam, 
But  just  let  me  remind  you 

You'll  nowhere  find  a  happier  home 
Than  what  you  leave  behind  you ! 

The  world  explore  from  shore  to  shorer 
'Twill  be  a  vain  endeavour, 

On  scenes  so  bright  you'll  never  light- 
On!  never,  never,  never  t 

Go  point  me  out  on  any  map 

A  match  for  green  Killarney, 
Or  Kevin's  bed,  or  Dunlo's  gap, 

Or  mystic  shades  of  Blarney, 
Or  Antrim's  caves,  or  Shannon's  waves;. 

Ah  me !  I  doubt  if  ever 
An  Isle  so  fair  was  seen  elsewhere — 

Oh  I  never,  never,  never ! 

Where  will  you  meet  with  lads  more  true 

And  where  with  truer  lasses  P 
Those  genial  hearts,  those  eyes  of  blue, 

Pray  tell  me  what  surpasses  P 
You  may  not  grieve  such  joys  to  leave. 

Or  care  such  ties  to  sever, 
But  friends  more  kind  you'll  never  find — 

Oh  !  never,  never,  never ! 

When  strutting  through  some  larger  town 

Than  your  own  native  city, 
Some  bigger  men  you  may  hunt  down 

And  bpre  them — more's  the  pity ! 
But  'tis  not  State  that  makes  men  great, 

And,  should  you  fawn  for  ever, 
You'll  never  rise  in  good  men's  eyes — 

Oht  never,  never,  never. 

And  now,  my  friends,  go  if  you  will 

And  visit  other  nations, 
But  leave  your  hearts  in  Erin  still 

Among  your  poor  relations ; 
,  The  spot  of  earth  that  gave  you  birtk 

Resolve  to  love  for  ever, 
And  you'll  repent  that  good  intent— 

Oh !  never,  never,  never  ! 

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Something  about  Sonnets.  341 

We  do  not  know  whether  the  Hon.  Mm.  0.  N.  Knox  is  Irish, 
like  the  new  Protestant  Primate  of  that  name.  We  give  the 
following  extract  from  her  "Sonnets  and  Other  Poems/'  for  the 
sake  of  the  useful  doctrine,  urged  too  far,  that  we  must  not  hope 
to  be  able  to  pray  effectively  at  any  given  moment,  that  there  must 
be  remote  and  proximate  preparation,  and  that  they  pray  best  who- 
pray  always : 

Yon  lift  your  hands,  and  pray  to  God  for  grace 

To  tread  down  Satan  underneath  your  feet, 

When  a  fierce  struggle  with  him  comes ;  you  cheat 

Yourself  with  hopes  that  now,  that  for  a  space, 

You  may  be  noble  where  your  life  was  base, 

Have  strength  bestowed  by  God,  whom  you  despised, 

Obtain  that  mercy  which  you  never  prized, 

And  overcome  a  foe  you  dared  not  face. 

Ah,  fool  and  blind !  canst  thou  not  yet  perceive 

How  equity  is  found  in  all  God's  ways  P 

Thou  shrinking,  burdened  one,  He  will  not  raise 

The  load  thou  dost  not  strain  at.    This  believe : 

That  prayer  is  weak  when  born  of  present  need ; 

It  should  be  life-long,  shaping  word  and  deed* 

The  last  sonnet  that  we  shall  give  on  the  subject  of  prayer,  is* 
by  our  own  contributor,  S.M.S.  It  has  already  appeared  in  our 
fifth  volume,  and  (not  accidentally)  on  the  same  page  with  a  sonnet 
by  Denis  Florence  Mac  Carthy : 

Art  thou  still  young,  and  dost  thou  glance  along 
Life's  opening  pathway  with  a  timid  dread  P 
Make  sure  of  prayer,  thence  be  thy  courage  fed, 
And  in  the  midst  of  strife  thou  shalt  be  strong. 

Or  do  the  cares  of  middle  life-time  throng 
In  all-absorbing  force  round  heart  and  head  P 
Make  sure  of  prayer  !  Our  Master  erstwhile  said, 
"  One  thing  sufficeth,  over-care  is  wrong." 

Or  hast  thou  reached  old  age's  twilight  drear  P 
Make  sure  of  prayer,  the  die  is  not  yet  cast. 
In  sight  of  port  sank  many  a  vessel  fair : 

If  thou  dost  hope — and  hope  supposeth  fear— 
If  thou  dost  hope  for  God  and  heaven  at  last, 
In  life,  in  death,  .make  sure,  make  sure  of  prayer/ 

The  reader  of  taste  will  not  relish  this  sonnet  less  bat  more*, 
when  he  finds  that  Sister  Mary  Stanislaus  has  here  versified 
some  words  of  Father  Faber,  which  may  be  found  at  page  159  of 
the  second  volume  of  "  Notes  on  Spiritual  Subjects/' 

*  If  you  are  young  and  look  onward  to  the  opening  trials  of  life ;  if  you 
desire  to  find  yourself  strong  in  God's  grace  and  established  in  holiness,  you*. 

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342  Something  about  Sonnets. 

must  be  rare  of  prayer;  if  you  ore  middle-aged  and  not  so  holy  as  you  feel 
jou  should  be,  and  look  on  to  old  age  and  its  peculiar  difficulties,  you  must  be 
sure  of  prayer ;  if  you  are  old  and  look  on  to  death,  &a,  be  sure  of  prayer* 
Let  us  all  look  into  the  bright  heaven  above  us ;  are  you  to  be  there  P  Is  it  to 
*be  your  everlasting  home  P    Be  sure  of  prayer." 

In  like  manner  has  this  most  skilful  sonneteer  dealt  with  a 
sentence  which  occurs  at  page  320  of  the  book  which  some  con- 
eider  Father  Faber's  best,  "  The  Creator  and  the  Creature : — "  Not 
a  day  passes  in  which  our  Blessed  Lady  does  not  interest  herself 
i or  us.  A  thousand  times  and  more  has  she  mentioned  our  names 
to  God,  in  such  a  sweet  persuasive  way  that  the  Heart  of  Jesus 
:  sought  not  to  resist  it,  though  the  things  she  asked  were  very 
.great  for  such  as  we  are/'  Here  is  this  view  of  "Mary's  Inter- 
cession,19 recast  in  sonnet  mould : — 

Oh,  thought  to  set  the  coldest  heart  on  fire  1 
Ob,  thought  to  cheer  the  most  despondent  breast ! 
A  thousand  times  within  the  regions  blest — 
A  thousand  times  the  bright  anjrelic  choir 
Have  heard  my  name  in  accents  of  desire, 
To  Jesus'  ear,  by  Mary's  lips  addressed ; — 
And  always  coupled  with  some  grand  request, 
Some  grace  not  all  my  life-toil  could  acquire ; 
And  with  such  pleading  in  her  voice  and  eyes, 
Persuasive  grace,  maternal  majesty, 
That  He  who  ne'er  her  slightest  wish  denies — 
(Although  the  boon  be  far  too  great  for  me, 
Unworthy  as  He  knows  me),  He  replies : 
"  As  thou  dost  will,  My  Mother,  let  it  be  r 

The  sonnets  we  have  grouped  here  together  illustrate  one  small 
-point  which  it  is  useful  to  remark,  though  it  is  only  a  mechanical 
detail,  a  mere  direction  to  the  printer ;  but,  as  Mr.  Oscar  Wilde 
•observed  once  in  calling  our  attention  to  the  "  vile  setting  "  of  a 
sonnet  in  proof  sheet,  "  sonnets  are  meant  to  be  looked  at  as  well  as 
Tead."  The  reader  may  have  noticed  a  difference  in  the  manner 
of  printing  the  foregoing  specimens  of  sonnet  literature.  With 
some  of  them  the  lines  all  begin  evenly  from  the  margin ;  and  this 
is  the  easiest  plan,  requiring  no  special  attention.  But  many  like  to 
.aid  the  mind  through  the  eye  by  indenting  the  lines  according  to 
the  changing  rhymes,  making  the  first  line  and  all  that  rhyme 
"with  it  start  evenly  from  the  margin,  while  the  second  line  and  all 
its  corresponding  lines  are  a  little  further  in.  A  compromise  be- 
irween  these  two  arrangements  makes  the  first  lines  of  the  two 
♦quatrains  and  of  the  two  tercets  begin  uniformly  from  the  outer 


>gle 


Something  about  Sonnet*.  343 

margin,  and  all  the  other  ten  lines  from  the  same  inner  margin, 
:  irrespective  of  rhymes.  As  a  farther  guide  to  the  eye  and  to  the 
intelligence  of  the  reader,  many  strongly  advocate  the  expediency 
*of  placing  a  "  white  line  " — a  blank  space — between  the  two  com- 
ponent parts  of  the  sonnet,  between  the  major  and  minor  system, 
or  (as  the  learned  reader  may  now  prefer  to  say)  between  the  octave 
■and  the  sestet.  Nay,  some  are  inclined  to  mark  in  this  manner 
also,  the  division  between  the  two  quatrains  and  again  between  the 
two  tercets. 

These  mechanical  devices  are,  in  reality,  no  restriction  to  real 
inspiration.  The  form  helps  to  secure  the  substance  ;  and  even  a 
partial  compliance  with  such  regulations  tends  to  increase  the 
-strength  and  clearness  of  the  thought.  A  thoughtful  and  refined 
•critic  in  the  Tablet  (December  18,  1875),  has  put  this  point  well. 
"  As  we  are  told  that  the  mere  obedient  observance  of  a  rule  of 
religious  life  contains  and  unfolds  high,  unguessed,  and  mystical 
spiritual  virtues,  so  the  mere  obedience  to  the  metrical  laws  of  the 
sonnet  implies  and  brings  with  it  the  beauties  of  the  crescendo,  the 
•evolution  of  thought,  the  climax,  the  fall — and  beauties  more 
-hidden  and  subtle  than  these/' 

A  quotation  from  Emerson,  which  is  common  to  both,  and  their 
agreement  in  more  than  a  quotation  enable  us  to  recognise,  in  the 
•critic  whom  we  have  just  quoted,  the  writer  of  a  yery  brief  essay  on 
•sonnets,  which  we  rejoice  at  being  able  to  rescue  from  the  forgotten 
pages  of  a  short-lived  and  long-dead  periodical ;  and  we  rejoice  all 
the  more,  because  we  believe  we  are  thus  giving  the  theory  of  one 
whose  practice  aims,  not  unsuccessfully,  at  the  most  exquisite  per- 
fection. But  is  not  "  Preludes  "  a  misnomer,  if  the  fuller  music 
»be  not  more  prompt  to  follow  P  The  miniature  essay  which  follows, 
•appeared  on  March  3,  1877,  in  Yorick,  a  little  journal  which 
•blended  literature  and  humour  of  too  quaint  and  delicate  a  flavour 
ito  prosper  in  this  rough,  noisy  world. 

How  far  are  English  sonneteers  bound  by  the  Italian  laws  of  sonnet  con- 
struction P  Probably  no  rale  belonging  to  one  language,  and  formed  by  its 
.peculiarities,  can  ever  be  adopted  without  modification  by  another.  We  u*e 
*oow,  conventionally,  the  nomenclature  of  ancient  versification,  while  the  metrical 
miles  of  the  ancients  are  impossible  to  uq.  In  the  same  way,  we  speak  of  English 
eonnets  of  the  Petrarchan  form,  although  only  a  certain  number  of  the  rules 
which  are  infrangible  in  Italian  are  practicable  in  English ;  among  those  which 
.are  not  practicable  is,  for  instance,  the  law  of  dissyllabic  rhymes — monosyllabic 
rhymes  being  restricted  in  Italian  to  comic  or  rather  to  grotesque  subjects.  No 
sure  line  can  be  drawn,  then,  at  the  limits  of  our  liberty,  but  it  would  be  well  if 
something  like  unanimity  could  be  arrived  at  in  England.    Thi*,  we  think,  can 

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344  Something  about  Sonnets. 

only  be  reached  by  a  tetter  appreciation  of  the  character  of  the  sonnet  thought,. 
which  k  the  cause  of  the  sonnet  form ;  it  is  its  cause,  and  it  is  guarded  by  the 
form  it  had  created.  A  fonnet  thought  should  be  complete — round,  not  long, 
not  capable  of  being  cut  off  at  any  length,  but  a  whole  organism.  Other  organ- 
isms there  are  of  different  shapes  to  that  of  the  sonnet,  which,  as  we  have  said, 
is  round » long  poems,  or  poems  of  long  shape  rather,  each  of  which,  if  it  has  a 
truo  life,  has  its  own  determinate  length.  We  remember,  by  the  way,  a  pas- 
sage in  one  of  Buskin's  earlier  works,  in  which  he  compares  the  length  of  a 
sea-weed,  organized  and  whole  in  its  system  of  veins  and  its  living  form,  with 
the  length  of  a  ribbon,  "a  vile  thing/'  without  shape,  or  growth,  or  system*. 
We  apply  the  comparison,  which  Mr.  Kuskin  made  in  its  literal  sense,  in  a 
criticism  of  design,  to  organized  and  unorganized  poems. 

We  nlay  conclude  that  the  necessary  sonnet-thought — which  is  the  very 
inspiration  and  the  cause  of  the  sonnet — is  guarded  by  a  correct  Petrarchan 
sfaps,  but  depends  less  for  its  preservation  upon  the  rhymes.  If  the  division 
into  quatrains  and  tercets,  with  the  proper  pauses,  be  carefully  observed,  the 
sonnet  will  hardly  suffer  from  the  use  of  a  greater  variety  of  rhymes  than  Italian 
laws  permit.  Italian,  with  its  regular  conjugations,  abounds  and  superabounds 
in  rhymes,  and  so  can  hardly  make  rules  for  a  language  which  has  no  regular 
verb-terminations.  Against  the  shape  of  the  sonnet  the  gravest  offences,  ami 
the  most  common  in  English,  are  these — the  neglect  of  the  pause  of  a  semicolon: 
at  least  (preferably  of  a  full  point),  at  the  end  of  the  second  quatrain,  which, 
neglect  confuses  the  evolution  of  thought ;  secondly,  the  separation  of  the  two 
final  lines  in  a  couplet,  which  gives  or  suggests  epigrammatic  point— out  of 
harmony  with  this  noble  form  j  and,  thirdly,  the  use  of  a  final  Alexandrine, 
which  is  every  way  fatal  to  the  equality,  roundness,  and  simplicity  of  the- 
sonnet. 

The  Shakesperian  sonnet,  with  its  six  alternate  rhymes  and  its  final  couplet, 
has  nothing  in  common  with  the  Italian,  except  the  number  of  its  lines ;  it 
opposes  fancy  to  thought,  fitfulness  to  evolution,  epigram  to  serenity. 

Most  English  sonneteers,  Milton  and  Wordsworth,  for  example,  have  aimed 
at  the  Petrarchan  form,  and  finding  it  too  difficult  for  continued  composition, 
in  English,  have  patched  it  with  scraps  of  the  Shakesperian  poem.  This  la- 
why  we  propose  a  relaxation  ss  regards  the  Italian  rules  of  rhyme,  and  as  regards 
shape  (t.s.  the  grouping,  growth,  and  pauses  of  the  sonnet)  an  obedience  to  the 
infrangible  Italian  law  which  has  formed  this  most  exquisite  of  poetic  forma 
with  something  of  the  power  and  spring  of  a  natural  law  in  the  growth  of  a 
plant.  This  strait  correctness  and  submission  retains  the  emotion  which  gathers 
strength  in  retention ;  for  it  is  not  joy  alone,  but  all  strong  passion,  which 
delights  in  "  suppression  of  the  heart ; "  whilst  in  these  narrow  bounds  the 
imagination  is  emancipated,  and  the  happy  poet  speaks  "  wildly,  or  with  the 
fiower  of  the  mind." 

As  a  true  sonnet  contains  more  substance  than  many  a  long 
poem,  so  this  essayling  condenses  all  that  went  before  it  and  adds 
much  of  its  own.  If  this  and  our  other  extracts  should  help  to  propa- 
gate the  orthodox  doctrine,  as  to  the  structure  of  the  sonnet,  we 
shall  not  (as  the  prefaces  to  dull  books  used  to  end)  have  written. 
in  vain. 


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THE  FIT  OF  AILSIE'S  SHOE. 

BY   ROSA  MTTLHOLLAND, 

AUTHO*  Or  "  TAOSAKT  TUSU,"  "  XXUUXTT,"  "  IHMW.1,1  OUCg,"  XTC.,  «TO. 

CHAPTER  I. 

ON  a  certain  mellow  August  afternoon  an  old  woman  was  travel- 
ling along  the  sea-girt  road  between  Portrush  and  Dunluce. 
She  wore  a  long  grey  cloak,  and  a  scarlet  neckerchief  thrown  over 
her  white  cap.  Her  face  was  unusually  sallow  and  wrinkled,  with 
small,  shrewd,  furtive  eyes.  She  carried  a  stick,  and  halted  now 
and  then  from  fatigue. 

She  looked  often  from  right  to  left,  and  from  left  to  right, 
over  the  sea,  heaving  helplessly  under  its  load  of  blazing  brooding 
glory,  and  inland,  over  the  stretches  of  green  and  golden,  where 
cattle  drowsed  and  corn  ripened.  She  seemed  like  one  not  assured 
of  her  way,  and  looking  for  landmarks.  Presently  she  stopped 
beside  some  boys  who  were  playing  marbles  under  ra  hedge  to  ask 
whereabouts  might  stand  the  house  of  one  James  MacQuillan. 

"  Is  it  Jamie's,  you  want  P  "  said  the  eldest  lad  ;  "  there  it's, 
up  the  hill  yonder,  with  its  shoulder  agin  the  haystack.  But  if 
you're  goin'  there,  I'll  tell  you  that  Ailsie's  out  at  the  fair. 
Mother  saw  her  pass  our  door  at  sunrise  this  mornin'." 

From  the  way  he  gave  his  information,  the  urchin  evidently 
thought  that,  Ailsie  being  from  home,  it  was  worth  no  one's  while 
to  climb  the  hill  to  Jamie's.  No  way  staggered  in  her  purpose  by 
the  news,  however,  the  old  woman  proceeded  on  her  travels,  and 
took  her  way  towards  the  haystack. 

She  plodded  up  a  green-hedged  lonan,  and  emerged  from  it  on 
a  causeway  of  round  stones  bedded  in  clay.  Here  stood  "Jamie's," 
a  white  cottage  smothered  in  fuchsia-trees.  There  was  a  sweet 
scent  of  musk  and  sitherwood  hanging  about,  and  a  wild  rose  was 
nailed  against  the  gable.  A  purple  pigeon  was  cooing  on  the 
russet  thatch,  and  a  lazy  cloud  of  smoke  was  reluctantly  mingling 
its  blue  vapour  with  the  yellow  evening  air.  Overtopping  the 
chimney  there  rose  a  golden  cock  of  new-made  hay.  The  old 
woman  snuffed  the  fragrant  breath  of  the  place,  poked  at  the 
fuchsia-bushes  with  her  stick,  and  peered  all  about  her  with  her 
Vol.xiy.No.157.    July,  1886.  v^rJ,>26 

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346  The  Fit  of  Aikie's  Shoe. 

shrewd  bright  eyes.    At  last  she  approached  the  open  door  and 
looked  across  the  threshold.* 

There  was  a  small  room  with  a  clay  floor,  a  fire  winking  on 
the  hearth  almost  blinded  out  by  the  sun,  a  spinning-wheel  in  the 
corner,  an  elderly  woman  knitting  beside  the  window,  and  a  check- 
curtained  bed  standing  in  the  corner,  in  which  a  sickly  man  sat  up 
with  a  newspaper  spread  on  his  knees. 

"  God  save  all  here  t  "  said  the  visitor,  pushing  in  her  head  at 
the  door.     "  An'  is  this  Jamie  MacQuillan's  P  " 

"  As  sure  as  my  name's  Jamie,"  said  the  weakly  man,  taking 
off  his  spectacles.  "  Take  a  seat,  ma'am.  You'd  be  a  thraveller 
maybe,  comin'  home  from  the  fair  P  " 

The  old  woman  had  dropped  into  a  chair,  panting  with  fatigue. 

"  It's  no  shame  for  ye,"  she  gasped,  "  that  ye  don't  know  me, 
seein'  that  ye  never  set  eyes  on  me  before ;  but  I'm  wan  o'  the 
McCambridges,  from  beyont  Lough  Neagh,  an'  I've  walked  every 
foot  o'  the  road  to  see  you  an'  yours." 

"  Why,  you  don't  mane  to  say  that  P  "  cried  Jamie,  his  pale 
face  lighting  up.  "You  don't  mane  to  say  you're  Shaun 
McCambridge's  sisther,  Penny,  own  cousin  to  my  father's  second 
wife,  that  was  to  have  stood  for  our  Ailsie  at  her  christenin',  only 
she  took  a  pain  in  her  heel  and  couldn't  stir  from  home  P  Faith, 
an'  I  might  haveknowed  you  by  the  fine  hook  o'  your  nose,  always 
an'  ever  the  sign  o'  the  rale  ould  blood.  Throth  that  same  blood's 
thicker  nor  wather.  Mary  machree,  it's  Penny  McCambridge, 
from  Lough  Neagh  side ! " 

Mary,  the  wife,  now  lifted  her  voice  in  welcome. 

"  Good  luck  to  you,  cousin  Penny,"  she  said.  c<  The  sight  o* 
wan  o'  your  folks  is  the  cure  for  sore  eyes.  Come  over  an'  give  us 
the  shake  o'  your  han',  for  not  a  stir  can  I  stir  this  year  past  with 
the  pains,  no  more  nor  Jamie  there  that's  down  on  his  back  since 
May.  Och,  it's  the  poor  do-less  pair  we'd  be  only  for  our  Ailsie, 
that's  han's  an'  feet  to  us  both,  an'  keeps  things  together  out  an'  in." 

A  great  hand-shaking  followed  this  speech,  and  then  the  visitor 
began  to  inquire  for  Ailsie,  her  god-daughter,  that  was  to  have 
been,  only  for  the  unfortunate  pain  in  the  heeL 

"  Wait  a  bit,  wait  a  bit,"  said  the  father ;  "  she'll  be  in  from 
the  fair  by-an'-by,  an'  then  if  ye  don't  give  her  the  degree  for 
han'somest  girl  and  the  best  manager  that  ever  stepped  about  a 
house,  I'll  give  ye  lave  to  go  back  to  Lough  Neagh  an'  spend  the, 
rest  o'  your  days  sarchin'  for  her  aiquals." 

"  Whisht,  Jamie,"  said  the  mother ;  "  self  praise  is  no  praise, 


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The  Fit  of  Aikie's  Shoe.  347 

no  more  is  praise  o'  yer  own  flesh  an9  blood.  All  the  same,  I 
wisht  Ailsie  was  in  to  make  cousin  Penny  the  cap  o'  tay  afther  her 
thravels.  She  was  to  bring  a  grain  o'  the  best  green  from  Misther 
McShane's,  in  Portrush,  as  well  as  all  the  news  from  Castle  Craigie, 
an'  of  the  doin's  of  ould  Lady  Betty  MacQuillan,  more  power  to 
her!" 

"  Is  that  the  ould  lady  that's  oome  home  from  Ingia  p  "  asked 
she  who  was  called  Penny  McCambridge. 

"Ay,  ay/'  said  the  wife  of  Jamie,  eagerly.  "Ye've  passed 
through  Portrush,  an'  ye'll  maybe  have  the  f oreway  of  Ailsie  with 
the  news.    What  are  they  saying  in  the  town  P  " 

"  Well,  ye  see/'  said  Penny,  "  bein'  a  sthranger,  and  spakin'  to 
few,  I  heard  but  little.  But  they  do  say  that  her  husband  was 
the  last  of  the  MacQuillanB  of  Castle  Craigie,  an'  that  as  she  has 
ne'er  a  child  of  her  own,  all  the  MacQuillans  in  the  counthry  are 
claimin'  kin  with  her,  an'  fightin'  among  them  about  which  '11  be 
her  heir." 

"  An'  is  that  all  ye  know,  Penny  dear  P  "  said  Mary.  "  Why, 
I  have  more  nor  that  mysel'.  Sure  she's  written  round  an'  round 
to  every  MacQuillan  o'  them  all,  biddin'  them  to  a  grand  house- 
warmin'  on  Wensday  come  eight  days,  when  she'll  settle  it  all, 
an'  name  who's  to  come  afther  her.  An'  though  she's  in  London 
now,  she'll  be  at  Castle  Craigie  afore  then  to  resave  them.  An' 
sich  a  resavin'  as  that'll  be !  Sich  fixin'  an'  furbishin'  as  there  is 
at  the  ould  castle.  They  say  there  never  was  the  likes  o'  it  seen 
since  the  day  Sir  Archie  MacQuillan  brought  home  his  fairy  bride, 
an'  then  it  wasn't  painters  an'  bricklayers,  but  the  '  good  people ' 
themselves  that  laid  han's  on  the  rooms." 

11  She  must  be  a  queer  sort  of  a  body,"  said  Penny.  "  But  I 
hope,  Jamie,  that  you,  as  honest  a  man,  an'  as  good  a  MacQuillan 
as  ever  a  wan  among  them,  I  hope  you  haven't  been  shy  of  sendin9 
in  your  claim." 

"  Och,  Penny,  if  you'd  only  put  that  much  spunk  into  him  !  " 
cried  Mary,  with  energy,  "  it's  what  I'm  sayin'  to  him  mornin', 
noon,  an'  night,  an'  it's  no  more  to  him  than  the  crickets  chirpin'." 

"Stop  your  grumblin',  Mary,"  said  the  husband,  "there's 
richer  nor  us,  and  there's  poorer,  but  we're  not  so  mane  yet  as  to 
go  cravin'  for  what  we're  not  likely  to  get  It's  not  to  MacQuil- 
lans like  us  that  Lady  Betty  has  sent  her  invite." 

"An'  more  shame  for  her!"  cried  Mary,  waxing  wroth. 
"  listen  to  me,  cousin  Penny.  When  Lady  Betty's  husband,  Sir 
Dinis  MacQuillan  that's  dead  an'  gone,  was  nothing  but  plain 

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348  The  Fit  of  Aikie's  Shoe. 

Dinis,  an'  the  youngest  of  seven  sons,  lie  went  off  an'  married 
wan  or'nary-faoed,  low-born  lass,  called  Betty  O'Flanigan,  an' 
brought  her  all  the  way  from  County  Wexford  to  Castle  Craigie 
here,  thinkin'  he  had  nothin'  to  do  in  the  world  but  ring  the  gate 
bell,  an'  walk  in  with  his  wife.  It  was  Christmas-time,  an'  hard 
weather,  an9  sich  f  eastin'  an'  visitin'  goin'  on  at  the  castle,  when 
all  at  wanst  the  news  o'  the  marriage  come  down  like  a  clap  on  the 
family.  It  took  six  men  to  hold  ould  Sir  Patrick,  he  was  in  that 
mad  a  rage,  an'  you  may  guess  it  was  little  welcome  poor  Betty 
got  when  Dinis  brought  her  to  the  door.  The  two  o'  them  had 
just  to  turn  back  the  way  they  come,  an'  it  beginnin'  to  snow,  when 
Jamie  there,  that  was  then  a  lad  of  fifteen,  he  was  standin'  out  by 
his  mother's  door,  an'  he  spied  them  comin'  down  the  road.  Betty 
had  on  a  fine  gown,  but  she  looked  very  lonesome,  poor  body,  an* 
Jamie  knowin'  what  had  happened,  he  up  an'  he  says : 

" '  Mrs.  MacQuillan,'  says  he,  '  it's  comin'  on  a  storrm,  an'  it'll 
be  hard  on  you  goin'  further  the  night,'  says  he.  l  And  if  you'll 
be  so  good  as  to  step  inside,'  says  he/  '  it's  my  mother  '11  be  glad 
to  see  you.' 

"  Poor  Betty  was  glad  to  hear  the  word,  an'  in  she  went,  an* 
stay  there  she  did  for  two  weeks,  till  her  husband  got  their  passage 
taken  out  to  Ingia.  An'  when  she  was  goin'  away,  an'  biddin' 
good-by,  she  says  to  Jamie,  she  says,  *  Jamie,  my  boy,  if  ever 
Betty  MacQuillan  comes  home  from  Ingia  a  rich  woman,  she'll 
find  out  you  an'  yours,  if  you're  above  the  arth,  an'  mind  you, 
she'll  pay  you  back  your  good  turn ! ' 

"  Many's  the  time  I  hard  the  story  from  Jamie's  mother,  rest 
her  sowl !  "  Mary  went  on.  "  An'  it's  the  fine  fortune  Dinis  an' 
Betty  made  in  Ingia.  Two  years  back,  when  the  last  of  the 
brothers  died  without  childer,  we  hard  that  Sir  Dinis  was  comin' 
back  to  end  his  days  in  Castle  Craigie.  But  that  news  wasn't  stale 
till  we  hard  o'  his  death,  poor  man !  An'  now  Betty's  comin' 
back  her  lone,  a  rich  woman,  an'  a  fine  lady.  An'  I'll  just  ax  you, 
cousin  Penny,  if  it  wouldn't  fit  her  betther  to  be  lookin'  afther 
Jamie  there,  that  offered  her  the  shelter  o'  the  roof  when  she  was 
in  need  o't,  than  to  be  huntin'  up  a  pack  o'  highflyers,  the  very 
set  that  sneered  an'  sniggered  over  her  disgrace  in  the  dhrawn-rdom 
at  the  castle,  the  day  she  was  turned  from  the  gates  P  " 

Cousin  Penny  had  given  attentive  ear  to  the  wife,  and  now  she 
turned  to  the  husband. 

"What  do  you  say  to  that  now,  Jamie  P"  she  asked,  with  a 
knowing  twinkle  of  her  shrewd  bright  eyes. 


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The  Pit  of  Aikies  Shoe.  849 

"  I  say  this/'  cried  Jamie,  crackling  and  folding  at  his  paper 
with  energy.  "  I  say  that  the  man  or  boy,  it's  all  wan,  that  does 
a  good  turn  expectin'  to  be  paid  for  it,  desarves  no  more  thanks 
than  a  man  that  sells  a  cow  and  dhrives  a  good  bargain.  An9 1 
say  that  Mary  ought  to  be  ashamed  to  sit  there  talking  of  sich  a 
thing  that  happened  forty  year  ago,  an'  if  Ailsie  was  here  she 
wouldn't — but  good  luck  to  her !  there  she  is  herseT,  gone  past 
the  window." 

All  the  three  pair  of  eyes  were  now  turned  to  the  doorway, 
whose  sunny  space  was  obscured  for  a  moment  by  as  pretty  a  figure 
as  any  lover  of  fresh  and  pleasant  sights  could  wish  to  see.  This 
was  a  ripe-faced,  dark-haired,  country  girl,  with  her  coarse  straw 
bonnet  tipped  over  her  forehead,  to  save  her  eyes  from  the  sun,  and 
her  neat  print  gown  tucked  tidily  up  over  her  white  petticoat. 

"  Come  in,  Ailsie !  "  cried  Jamie,  "  come  in  an'  see  your  cousin, 
Penny  McCambridge,  from  Lough  Neagh  side,  that  was  to  have 
been  your  godmother,  an'  has  come  every  fut  o'  the  road  from  that 
to  this,  to  see  what  sort  o'  lass  you've  turned  out." 

"  Make  haste  an'  make  us  the  cup  o'  tay,"  said  her  mother. 
"  I  hope  you  didn't  forget  to  bring  us  a  grain  o'  the  best  green 
from  Misther  McShane's  P  Good  girl !  An'  how  did  yer  eggs  an9 
butter  sell  P  I'll  lay  you  a  shillin'  you  haven't  the  sign  o'  either 
wan  or  the  other  to  set  before  the  sthranger  this  day  1 " 

"  Maybe  I  haven't  though  ! "  said  Ailsie,  laughing.  "  It's  by 
the  fine  good  luck  I  put  by  two  nice  little  pats  undher  a  dish,  afore 
I  went  off  this  mornin'.  An'  as  for  eggs,  if  Mehafly  hasn't  laid 
wan  afore  this  time  o'  day,  I'll  put  her  in  the  pot  for  a  lazy  big 
hen,  an'  Cousin  Penny  '11  stay  an'  help  to  ate  her." 

A  nice  little  meal  was  set,  and  Ailsie  flung  herself  on  a  bench 
to  rest. 

"  An'  now  you'll  have  breath  to  tell  us  the  news,  Ailsie,"  said 
Mary,  the  mother,  sipping  her  tea  complacently.  "  What's  doin' 
an'  sayin'  in  Portrush  about  Lady  Betty  P  " 

"  Oh  throth,  mother !  "  said  Ailsie,  tossing  her  head,  "  troth 
I'm  sick,  sore,  an'  tired,  hearin'  o'  the  quare  old  house  she's  pulled 
down  on  her  back,  poor  body !  Sich  gregin'  an'  comparin'  you 
never  hard  since  the  day  you  were  born.  The  f rien's  o'  wan 
MacQuillan,  an*  the  frien's  o'  another,  at  it  hard  an'  fast  for 
which'll  have  the  best  chance  of  comin'  in  for  the  ould  lady's 
favour.  An'  sich  preparations!  Mrs.  Quinn,  the  housekeeper, 
took  me  all  through  the  castle  to  see  the  new  grandeur ;  an'  sich 
curtains,  an'  pictures,  an'  marble  images,  an'  sich  lookin'-glasses ! 

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350  The  Fit  qf  AiMe's  Shoe. 

feth,  when  I  went  to  the  dhrawn-room  door,  I  thought  I'd  gone 
crazy,  for  half-a-dozen  other  Ailsies  started  up  in  the  oorners  an' 
all  over  the  walls,  an'  come  to  meet  me  with  their  baskets  on  their 
arms.  An'  then  there's  the  ball-room  where  the  dancin's  to  be, 
all  hung  round  with  green  things,  an'  the  floor  as  slippy  an'  as 
shiny  as  the  duck  pond  was  last  Christmas  in  the  long  frost  An9 
I  went  into  Miss  O'Trimmins,  the  dressmaker,  to  see  if  her  tooth* 
ache  was  better,  an'  I  do  declare  she  could  hardly  reach  me  her 
little  finger  across  the  heaps  of  silks  an'  muzlins  that  she  had  piled 
about  her  there  in  her  room.  An'  while  I  was  there,  a  carriage 
dashed  up  to  the  door,  an'  out  stepped  the  five  Miss  MacQuillans 
from  Bally  Scuffling,  an'  in  they  all  came  to  have  their  dresses 
tried  on.  An'  Miss  O'Trimmins  kept  me  to  hold  the  pins  while 
she  was  fittin'  them,  for  all  her  girls  were  that  busy  they  could 
hardly  stop  to  thread  their  needles.  An'  sich  pinchin'  an'  screwin' ! 
When  they  went  away,  I  said  to  Miss  O'Trimmins,  *  I'm  thank- 
ful/ says  I,  '  that  none  o'  these  gowns  is  for  me.'  An'  she  laughed, 
and  says  she,  '  I  wouldn't  put  it  past  you,  Ailsie,  to  be  right  glad 
to  go  to  the  same  ball  if  you  got  the  chance.' 

" '  I'm  not  so  sure  o'  that,'  says  I,  '  but,  as  for  chance,  my 
name' 8  MacQuillan  as  well  as  its  theirs  that  were  here  this  minute 
lookin'  at  me  as  if  I  was  the  dirt  undher  their  feet.  An'  put  it  to 
pride  or  not,'  says  I,  '  but  I  do  think,  if  I  was  done  up  grand,  I 
could  manage  to  cut  as  good  a  figure  in  a  ball-room  as  e'er  a  wan 
o'  them  red- nosed  things  that  are  goin'  to  dress  themsel's  up  in  all 
this  fine  grass-coloured  satin ! '  It  was  very  impident  an'  ill  done 
o'  me  to  make  such  a  speech,"  said  Ailsie,  blushing  at  her  con- 
fession, which  had  sent  cousin  Penny  into  fits  of  laughter,  "  but 
my  blood  was  up,  somehow,  with  the  looks  o'  them  old  things  from 
Bally  Scuffing,  an'  I  couldn't  hold  my  tongue  I  " 

"  Go  on,  go  on,  Ailsie  dear ! "  said  Penny,  wiping  her  eyes. 

"  Oh,  then,"  said  Ailsie,  "  she  began  talkin'  the  same  kind  o* 
stuff  that  they  were  botherin'  me  with  the  day  through,  axin'  me 
why  my  father  hadn't  sent  word  to  Lady  Betty  like  the  rest  o'  the 
MacQuillans,  tellin'  me  we  were  the  only  wans  o'  the  name  that 
hadn't  spoken.  It's  just  the  wan  word  in  all  their  mouths.  Mrs. 
Maginty,  that  buys  my  eggs,  she  was  at  it  an'  ouldDan  Carr,  that 
takes  my  butter  from  me,  I  thought  I'd  never  get  him  talked  down, 
an'  Nancy  McDonnell  that  was  sellin'  sweeties  in  the  fair,  an' 
Katty  O'Neil  that  was  goin'  about  with  me  all  day,  an'  Mrs. 
McShane  that  I  bought  the  tea  from.  Och  !  I  couldn't  remember 
the  wan  half  o'  them  ! " 


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The  Fit  of  Ailsie'*  Shoe.  351 

"  An'  what  did  you  say  to  them,  Aikie  dear  P  "  asked  Mary 
the  mother,  insinuatingly. 

"Why,"  said  Ailsie,  " I  tould  them  first,  that  all  the  rest  o' 
the  MacQuillans  about  were  ladies  an'  gentlemen,  an'  would  be 
creditable  to  Lady  Betty  when  she  made  her  choice,  but  that  my 
father  was  a  poor  man  that  had  nothin'  to  do  with  the  comin's  an' 
goin's  o'  genthry.  But  when  that  wouldn't  do,  I  up  an'  told  them 
that  he  had  too  much  f eelin'  for  a  lonely  old  woman  comin'  home 
without  a  friend  in  her  ould  age,  to  think  of  beginnin'  to  worry 
her  about  what  would  be  to  divide  af ther  her  death,  afore  ever  she 
set  foot  in  the  counthry.  '  It's  an  ill  welcome  for  all  their  fine 
talking/  said  I,  '  an'  if  they  hadn't  put  her  an'  peschered  her  to  it, 
she  would  never  be  for  doin'  the  quare  thing  she's  goin'  to  do  on 
Wensday  week  night.'  An'  what  do  you  think  she  is  goin'  to  do, 
father  P  "  said  Ailsie,  turning  to  Jamie,  "  but  she's  to  have  a  big 
cake  made,  an'  a  ring  in  it,  an'  every  MacQuillan  at  the  feast  gets 
a  piece  o'  the  cake,  an'  whoever  finds  the  ring,  as  sure  as  he's  there 
he's  the  wan  to  share  Lady  Betty's  fortune,  an'  come  afther  her  in 
Castle  Craigie !  " 

Here  Mary  the  mother  began  to  groan  and  rock  herself,  and 
complain  of  the  obstinacy  of  people  who  would  not  stretch  out 
their  hands  for  a  piece  of  that  lucky  cake,  when  it  might  be  theirs 
for  the  asking.  Jamie  was  getting  very  red  in  the  face,  and 
crumpling  his  paper  very  fiercely,  when  Penny,  who  had  been 
laughing  again,  once  more  wiped  her  eyes,  and  taking  her  stick 
from  the  corner,  prepared  to  depart. 

"  It's  getting  far  in  the  day,"  she  said,  "  an'  I  have  a  good 
bit  further  to  go  afore  night,  to  see  my  old  friend  Madgey 
Mucklehern,  that  lives  in  the  Windy  Gap ;  good  luck  is  hers  she 
hasn't  been  blown  out  o't  house  an'  all  afore  th^s !  But  I'll  be 
back  this  way/'  she  added ;  "  don't  you  think  ye've  seen  the  last 
o'  Penny  McOambridge,  cousin  Jamie,  for  feth  ye'll  know  more  o' 
me  shortly,  if  the  Lord  spares  me  my  breath  for  a  wheen  more  o' 
weeks." 

And  Penny  McCambridge  shook  hands  with  her  kinsfolk,  and 
trotted  away  down  the  lonan,  as  she  had  come. 


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352  The  Fit  of  Ailsie's  Shoe. 


CHAPTER  II. 

It  was  only  a  few  evenings  after  this  that  Ailsie  was  sitting  on 
the  end  of  the  kitchen-table,  reading  the  newspaper  to  her  father. 

"  Na — na,"  said  Ailsie,  stumbling  at  a  word,  "  v  i — vi,  g  a — ga 

Och,  my  blessin'  to  the  word,  I  can't  make  head  or  tail  o't. 

Ye'll  read  it  betther  yersel',  father ;  an'  it's  time  I  was  goin* 
f eedin'  my  hens,  anyhow !  " 

"Ailsie,"  said  Jamie,  rubbing  his  spectacles,  "I'm  feared 
you'r  turnin'  out  a  bad  clark  afther  all  the  throuble  Misther 
Devnish  has  taken  wi'  you.  Ye'r  getting*  a  big  woman,  Ailsie, 
an'  there's  not  a  thing  ye'r  bad  at  but  the  clarkin'.  Go  off  to 
school,  now,  this  very  evenin',  and  give  my  respects  to  Hughie 
Devnish,  an'  tell  him  to  tache  you  how  to  spell  navigation  afore 
you  come  back." 

Ailsie  coloured,  and  her  thick  black  lashes  rested  on  her  russet 
cheeks  while  she  tucked  up  her  gown  and  kneaded  the  wet  meal 
for  the  hens  with  her  gipsy  hands.  But  as  she  left  the  house  she 
looked  back  with  a  wicked  little  toss  of  her  head. 

"  Then  you  an'  Hughie  Devnish  may  put  it  out  o'  yer  heads 
that  ye'll  ever  make  a  clark  o'  Ailsie,"  die  said ;  "  for  if  ye  wer 
to  boil  down  all  the  larnin'-books  that  ever  cracked  a  school- 
masther's  skull,  an'  feed  her  on  nothin'  but  that  for  the  next  ten 
years,  ye  wouldn't  have  her  wan  bit  the  larnder  in  the  hinder  end !  " 

So  saying,  she  stepped  out  into  the  sun,  and  was  busy  feeding 
her  hens  under  the  shelter  of  the  golden  haycock,  when  she  saw  a 
servant  in  a  showy  livery  coming  riding  up  the  lonan. 

"  Can  you  tell  me  where  Miss  MacQuillan  lives  about  here,  my 
good  girlP"  he  asked,  with  a  supercilious  glance  at  Ailsie's 
wooden  dish. 

"  No,"  said  Ailsie,  looking  at  him  with  her  head  thrown  back. 
"That's  Jamie  MacQuillan's  house" — pointing  to  the  gable — 
"  an'  I'm  his  daughter  Ailsie,  but  there's  no  Miss  MacQuillan  here ; 
none  nearer  by  this  road  nor  Bally  Scuffling." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  miss,"  said  the  man,  with  an  altered 
manner,  "  but  I  believe  this  must  be  for  you."  And  then  he  rode 
off,  leaving  her  standing  staring  at  a  dainty  pink  note  which  she 
held  by  one  corner  between  two  mealy  fingers.  "Miss  Ailsie 
MacQuillan,"  said  the  ink  on  the  back  of  the  narrow  satin  envelope. 

"  That's  me !  "  said  Ailsie,  with  a  gasp.  •'  The  rest  o'  them's 
all  Lizabeths,  an'  Isabellas,  an*  Aramintys.     An',  as  thrue  as  I'm 

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The  Fit  of  Ailsie's  Shoe.  353 

a  livin'  girl,  it's  the  Castle  Craigie  liveries  yon  fine  fellow  was 
dressed  up  so  grand  in,  an'  here's  the  Castle  Craigie  crest  on  this 
purty  little  seal/9 

It  was  a  note  of  invitation  to  Lady  Betty's  ball,  and,  in  spite 
of  her  bad  "  clarkin'/'  Ailsie  was  able  to  read  it,  spelling  it  out 
word  after  word,  turning  it  back  and  forward  and  upside- down, 
and  feeling  sure  all  the  time  that  somebody  had  played  a  trick  on 
her  by  writing  to  Lady  Betty  in  her  name.  She  sat  on  a  stone 
and  made  her  reflections,  with  the  sun  all  the  while  burning  her 
cheeks,  and  making  them  more  and  more  unfit  to  appear  in  a 
ball-room. 

"  An'  she  thinks  I'm  some  fine  young  lady  in  a  low  neck  an' 
satin  shoes,  waitin'  all  ready  to  step  into  her  ball-room  an'  make 
her  a  curtsey.  Good  luck  to  her !  What  'd  she  say  if  she  heard 
Ailsie's  brogues  hammerin'  away  on  yon  fine  slippy  floor  o'  hers  P  " 
And  Ailsie,  as  she  spoke,  extended  one  little  roughshod  foot  and 
looked  at  it  critically.  "  Then  thank  you,  Lady  Betty ;  but  I'm 
not  goin'  to  make  myseT  a  laughin'-stock  for  the  counthry  yet !  " 

"  Who  came  ridin'  up  the  lonan  a  bit  ago,  Ailsie  P  "  said  the 
mother,  when  she  went  in  with  the  note  safely  hidden  in  her 
pocket. 

"  Ridin'  up  the  lonan  is  it  P  "  said  Ailsie. 

"Ay,  ay,"  said  Mary,  "I  thought  I  hard  a  horse's  fut  on  the 
road,  but  it  be  to  been  yer  father  snorin'." 

"  Me  snorin' !  "  cried  Jamie,  starting  and  rubbing  his  eyes, 
"  Te'r  dhramin'  yerseP,  Mary.  Ailsie,  ye  witch,  are  ye  not  gone 
to  school  yet  P  " 

"Well,  I'll  go  now,  father,"  said  Ailsie.  "Maybe,"  she 
thought,  "  Hughie  'U  tell  me  what  to  do  with  that  letter  afore  I 
come  back." 

A  thatched  house,  with  a  row  of  small  latticed  windows  blink- 
ing down  at  the  sea  in  the  strong  sunset,  with  a  grotesque  thorn, 
looking  over  the  more  distant  gable,  and  an  army  of  fierce  holly- 
hocks mustering  about  the  little  entry-door.  This  was  the  school,, 
and  Mr.  Hugh  Devnish  was  at  this  moment  standing  at  his  desk, 
writing  "head-lines"  in  the  copy-books  of  his  pupils;  a  young* 
man  with  a  grave  busy  face,  and  one  hand  concealed  in  the  breast 
of  his  coat.  That  hand  was  deformed,  and  so  Hugh  Devnish  had 
been  brought  up  to  teach  school,  instead  of  to  follow  the  plough* 
That  such  breeding  had  not  been  wasted,  his  face  announced. 
Even  the  country  people  around  held  him  in  unusual  respect, 
though  he  did  not  give  them  half  as  many  long  words,  nor  talk 

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354  The  Fit  of  Aikie's  Shoe. 

"Latin  to  them,  like  his  predecessor,  Larry  O'Mullan,  who  had 
died  of  hard  study,  poor  boy !  at  the  age  of  eighty-fire. 

Hughie  glanced  through  the  window  before  him,  got  suddenly 
Ted  in  the  face,  and  cried  "  Attention !  "  in  a  voice  which  made  all 
the  lads  and  lasses  look  up  from  their  copy-books.  The  next 
moment  a  gipsy-faced  girl  walked  in,  hung  up  her  bonnet,  and  sat 
•down  on  a  form. 

"  What's  your  word,  Ailsie  MacQuillan  P  "  asked  the  school- 
master, taking  her  book  with  a  severe  and  business-like  air. 

"  Invitation,  sir — navigation,  I  mane,"  said  Ailsie,  demurely, 
studying  her  folded  hands. 

The  master  looked  at  her  sharply,  and  afterwards  frowned 
severely,  when,  on  going  the  rounds  of  the  desks,  he  found  "  Lady 
Betty  MacQuillan,"  "Castle  Craigie,"  and  other  foolish  and 
meaningless  words,  scrawled  profanely  over  the  page  which  was  to 
have  been  sacred  to  navigation  alone.  Ailsie  was  "  kept  in  "  for 
bad  conduct,  and  locked  up  alone  in  the  school  after  the  other 
pupils  had  gone  home.  And  there,  when  the  schoolmaster  came 
to  release  her,  she  was  found  plucking  the  roses  that  hung  in  at 
the  window,  and  sticking  them  in  the  holes  for  the  ink-bottles 
along  the  desks.    A  crumpled  note  lay  open  before  her. 

We  should  hardly  have  said  the  schoolmaster  came  in,  for, 
though  it  was  Hughie  Devnish,  he  appeared  in  a  new  character. 
This  punished  girl  was  his  wildest  and  least  creditable  pupil,  and 
yet,  when  he  walked  up  to  her  in  her  disgrace,  he  was  trembling 
jtnd  blushing  like  his  own  youngest  "  scholar"  coming  up  for  a 
whipping.  His  eye  caught  the  crumpled  note,  and  he  picked  it 
up  and  read  it. 

"  I  guessed  how  'twas,"  he  said,  "  but  you're  surely  not  think- 
in'  of  goin'P" 

Now  Ailsie  had  intended  to  ask  his  advice,  but  the  mischief 
that  was  in  her  would  come  out. 

"Why  should  I  not  go  as  well  as  another?"  she  asked, 
pettishly. 

"  Aroon,  you  know  I  would  not  like  it,"  he  said. 

"  An'  that's  a  reason,  f eth  ! "  said  Ailsie,  tossing  her  head,  and 
beginning  to  piok  a  rose  to  pieces. 

"  Ailsie,"  said  the  young  man  vehemently,  "  it  was  only  the 
other  day  you  told  me  here  that  you  could  like  me  betther  than  all 
the  world,  betther  than  Ned  Mucklehern,  for  all  his  fine  land  and 
his  presents  o'  butther  an'  crame ;  betther  than  Mehaffy  the  miller, 


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The  Fit  of  Ailsie  s  Shoe.  855 

that  gave  you  the  fine  8j>eckled  hen ;  betther  than  MacQuillan  o* 

the  Keek " 

"  Bad  manners  to  him !  "  struck  in  Ailsie,  angrily,  flinging  a 
shower  of  rose-leaves  from  her  hand  over  the  desks. 
"  You  promised  to  be  my  wife,  Ailsie." 

"  It  all  come  o'  keepin'  me  in  for  had  conduct/'  said  Ailsie, 
swinging  one  foot  with  provoking  unconcern. 

"  No  matter  what  it  came  of/'  said  Hughie,  "  you  promised 
me.  And  you  promised  me  as  well  that  you  wouldn't  go  thrustin' 
yourself  among  these  people,  that  would  only  laugh  at  you  for 
your  pains." 

"  I  don't  know  why  you  should  think  I'd  be  laughed  at/'  said 
Ailsie,  "  barrin'  you're  ashamed  o'  me ! " 

The  schoolmaster's  face  blazed  up,  and  with  all  his  heart  in  his 
eyes  he  gazed  at  her  where  she  sat  with  her  ripe  face  half  turned 
from  the  sun  coming  through  the  lattice,  and  her  dark  head  framed 
in  the  roses. 

"  Ashamed  o'  you,  mavourneenP"  he  said,  tenderly.  "No; 
but  there  might  be  some  there  that  I  wouldn't  like  you  to  come 
across,    an'   you    alone    an'    unprotected.      MacQuillan   o'  the 

Beek " 

"  I  slapped  his  face  wanst ! "  cried  Ailsie,  firing  up  again, 
41  an'  it's  not  likely  he'll  come  axin'  me  to  do  't  again." 

"  And  there'll  be  others  there,"  he  went  on,  "  that'd  fall  in 
love  wi'  you  maybe,  an'  snatch  you  up  from  Hughie  before  he  has 
enough  earned  to  marry  you  out  o'  hand." 

"  An'  what  if  they  did  P  "  said  Ailsie,  with  wicked  coolness. 
"  What  if  they  did  P  "  repeated  Devnish,  slowly,  looking  at 
her  with  a  pained  appealing  look,  as  if  expecting  her  to  retract 
the  cruel  words.  "  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  Ailsie,"  he  broke  out 
passionately,  drawing  his  left  hand  from  its  concealment,  <4I 
believe  it's  this  that's  workin'  at  the  bottom  o1  all  your  coldness. 
You're  tired  already  of  a  deformed  lover.  Go  to  Lady  Betty's 
ball  then,  an'  find  a  husband  for  yourself  that  you'll  not  be 
ashamed  of.     Go—  " 

Just  as  Ailsie  was  getting  pale,  and  the  tears  coming  into  her 
eyes,  a  little  door  opened,  and  a  good-humoured-looking  country 
woman  came  into  the  schoolroom. 

"  Gome  in  to  your  supper,  Hughie,"  she  said.  "  Och,  is  it 
Ailsie  MacQuillan  in  penance  the  night  again  P  Girl  alive !  is  it  a 
love-letther  you're  showin'  the  masther  ?  " 

"No,  indeed,  Mrs.  Devnish,"  said  Ailsie,  erecting  her  head ; 

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356  The  FU  of  Aikie's  Shoe. 

"it's  a  note  of  invitation  from  Lady  Betty  MacQuillan,  axin'  me 
to  do  her  the  honour  of  dancin'  at  her  ball  at  Castle  Craigie  on 
Wensday  come  eight  days.'* 

"  Oh,  then,  then !  but  you're  the  lucky  girl,"  cried  the  Widow 
Devnish,  clapping  her  hands  over  the  note,  while  Hughie  stalked 
away  silently  to  a  window  by  himself.  "  I  declare  it's  as  grand 
an'  as  beautyful  as  if  it  was  written  to  the  Queen.  Asthore !  an' 
has  your  mother  any  sense  left  at  all,  with  the  dint  ov  the  joy  P  " 

"  She  didn't  see  it  yet,'9  stammered  Ailsie,  seeing  now  the 
scrape  into  which  she  had  got  herself  through  yielding  to  her 
reckless  whim  of  tormenting  her  lover.  "  I  got  it  just  as  I  left 
home,  an'  she  didn't  see  it  yet." 

"  An'  you're  stan'in'  up  there  as  if  nothin'  had  happened  you, 
you  ongrateful  colleen,"  said  the  Widow  Devnish,  pocketing  the 
note.  "  Wait  a  minute,  then,  till  I  get  the  cloak,  an'  it's  myseT 
'11  go  home  wi'  you,  an*  help  to  tell  the  news." 


CHAPTER  HI. 

It  was  speedily  settled  between  Mary  MacQuillan  and  the  Widow 
Devnish  that  Ailsie  should  go  to  the  ball. 

"  I  have  a  fine  piece  of  yellow  Chaney  silk,"  said  the  Widow 
Devnish.  "  that  Sailor  Johnny  sent  me  from  beyont  the  says.  It 
would  make  her  a  skirt,  barrin'  it  wasn't  too  long,  an'  a  hem  o' 
somethin'  else  lined  on  behind." 

"An'  I've  a  ducky  bit  o'  chery  tabinet,"  said  Mary,  the 
mother,  "  that  brother  Pat,  the  weaver,  sent  me  from  Dublin  to 
make  a  bonnet  o\  It'll  cut  into  a  beautyful  jockey  for  her, 
barrin'  we  don't  make  the  sleeves  too  wide." 

So  on  the  eventful  night  Ailsie  was  dressed  out  in  the  yellow 
silk  skirt  and  cherry-coloured  bodice,  with  a  fine  pair  of  stockings 
of  Mary's  own  knitting,  with  magnificent  clocks  up  the  sides. 
Her  little  bog-trotting  brogues  wqre  polished  till  you  could  see 
yourself  in  the  toes,  and  a  pair  of  elegant  black  silk  mittens 
covered  her  hands  up  to  her  little  brown  knuckles,  stretching  up 
past  her  wrists  to  make  amends  for  the  scantiness  of  her  sleeves. 
Then,  she  had  a  grand  pair  of  clanking  earrings  as  long  as  your 
little  finger,  which  the  Widow  Devnish  had  worn  as  a  bride ;  and 
the  two  mothers,  taking  each  a  side  of  the  victim's  head,  plaited  her 


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The  Fit  o/Ailtie's  Shoe.  357 

thick  black  hair  into  endless  numbers  of  fanciful  braids,  which 
they  rolled  round  the  crown  of  her  head,  and  into  which  they 
planted  a  tortoiseshell  comb,  curved  like  the  back  of  an  arm-chair, 
which  Jamie's  mother  had  worn  at  his  christening,  and  which 
towered  over  Ailsie's  head  like  Minerva's  helmet  put  on  the  wrong 
way.  Ned  Mucklehern  of  the  Windy  Gap  was  to  take  her  to  Castle 
Craigie  in  his  new  spring  cart ;  and  two  good  hours  before  dark 
Ailsie  was  standing  at  the  door,  looking  longingly  for  a  glimpse  of 
Hughie  coming  over  the  hill,  to  see  how  handsome  she  looked  in  her 
strange  finery.  But  Hughie  did  not  appear,  and  vowing  vengeance 
on  him  for  his  "  sulks,"  Ailsie  submitted  to  be  packed  up  in  the 
cart. 

"  But  it's  no  use  takin'  the  rue  now,"  said  she.  "  I  be  to  go 
through  with  it !  "  And  with  desperate  bravery  she  said  "  good 
night "  to  Ned  Mucklehern,  who,  at  her  command,  set  her  down  at 
a  little  distance  from  the  entrance  gates,  out  and  in  of  which  the 
carriages  were  rolling  at  such  a  rate  as  made  poor  Ailsie's  heart 
thump  against  her  side,  till  it  was  like  to  burst  through  Pat-the- 
weaver's  tabinet. 

She  crept  in  through  a  little  side-gate,  and  up  the  avenue,  keep- 
ing as  much  as  possible  in  shelter  of  the  trees ;  but  it  was  not  quite 
dark  ydt,  and  the  coachmen  coming  and  going  stared  at  her,  taking 
her,  maybe,  for  some  masquerading  gipsy  or  strolling  actress,  whom 
Lady  Betty  had  engaged  to  amuse  the  company.  She  arrived  at  the 
hall  door  just  in  time  to  see  a  flock  of  young  ladies  in  white  robes 
float  graoefully  over  the  threshold,  and  the  absurdity  of  her  own 
oostume  came  before  her  in  its  terrible  reality.  Covered  with  con- 
fusion, she  looked  about  to  see  if  she  could  escape  among  the  trees, 
and  hide  there  till  morning ;  but  one  of  the  grand  servants  had 
•espied  her,  and  under  his  eyes  Ailsie  scorned  to  beat  a  retreat. 

"  What  is  your  business  here,  young  woman  ?  "  asked  this  awful 
person,  as  she  stepped  into  the  glare  of  the  hall  lights. 

"  I  am  one  of  Lady  Betty's  guests,"  said  Ailsie,  lifting  her  head. 
But  a  horrible  tittering  greeted  this  announcement  from  a  crowd  of 
other  servants,  who  were  all  eyeing  her  curiously  from  head  to  foot. 
Ailsie  was  ready  to  sink  into  the  earth  with  shame  and  mortification, 
when,  happily,  the  arrival  of  a  fresh  carriagef ul  of  guests  diverted 
the  general  attention  from  herself,  and  she  heard  some  one  saying, 
"  This  way,  miss."  Glad  to  escape  anywhere,  she  followed  a  servant 
whose  face  she  could  not  see,  but  whose  voice  was  wonderfully 
familiar.  Passing  through  an  inner  hall,  her  hand  was  grasped  by  this 
person,  and  she  was  swiftly  drawn  into  a  pantry  and  the  door  shut- 
Vol.  xiv.  No.  157.  rO0g 


358  The  Fit  of  Ailsie' a  Shoe. 

"  Oh,  Hughie,  Hughie !  "  cried  Ailsie,  bursting  into  tears,  and 
clinging  to  his  arm.  "  Then  where  did  you  dhrop  from,  anyways  P " 

"  Whisht,  avourneen  !  "  said  Hughie,  "  we  haven't  a  minute  to 
stay,  for  yon  chaps  '11  be  runnin'  in  an'  out  here  all  night.  But 
do  you  think  Hughie  could  rest  aisy  at  home  an'  you  unprotected 
in  this  place  P  Wan  o1  the  fellows  was  knocked  up  with  all  the 
wine  that's  goin',  an'  they  were  glad  to  give  me  his  place,  an'  his 
clothes.     Ye  won't  feel  so  lonesome." 

"  Oh,  Hughie,  I  wisht  I'd  stayed  at  home  as  you  bid  me.  An" 
your  han',  Hughie  ?  " 

"  Och,  never  mind  it,  asthore.  I'll  only  carry  small  thrays,  and 
the  wan  hand  '11  do  beautiful.  Come  now,  aroon."  So,  resuming- 
his  character  of  servant,  Hughie  squired  his  trembling  lady  love 
up  Lady  Betty's  gilded  staircase. 

The  ball  was  held  in  an  old-fashioned  hall  whose  roof  was- 
crossed  with  dark  rafters,  from  which  gloomy  old  banners  were 
swinging.    The  door  was  partly  open,  and  Ailsie  peeped  in. 

"  Oh,  Hughie,  Hughie ! "  she  whispered,  "  take  me  back  to  the 
panthry !  I'll  lie  close  in  a  cupboard,  an'  never  stir  a  stir  till 
morning." 

"  It  couldn't  be  done,  darlin',"  whispered  Hughie.  "  Te  must 
put  a  bold  face  on  it,  an'  take  your  chance." 

He  opened  the  door  wide,  and  Ailsie  felt  herself  swallowed  up 
in  a  blaze  of  light  and  colour,  with  a  hum  in  her  ears  as  of  a  thousand 
bees  all  buzzing  round  her  head  at  once.  When  she  recovered  from 
her  first  stunned  sensation,  and  regained  consciousness  of  her  own: 
identity,  she  found  herself  seated  side  by  side  with  the  five  Miss- 
MacQuillans  from  Bally  Scuffling,  all  dressed  in  their  grass-coloured 
satin,  all  with  their  noses  redder  than  ever,  all  eyeing  her  askance 
from  her  comb  to  her  brogues,  and  tittering  just  as  the  servants  had 
done  in  the  hall. 

A  band  was  playing,  and  a  crowd  of  people  were  dancing,  but 
it  seemed  to  Ailsie,  whenever  she  looked  up,  that  nobody  had  got 
anything  to  do  but  to  stare  at  her.  JW^hen  she  saw  the  elegant 
slippers  of  the  dancers  she  was  afraid  to  stir  lest  the  "  hammerin' " 
of  her  feet  should  be  heard  all  over  the  room ;  and  when  MacQuillan 
of  the  Reek  came  up  to  her,  and,  making  a  low  bow,  begged  the 
honour  of  dancing  with  her,  Ailsie's  ears  began  to  sing  with  con* 
fusion,  and  her  teeth  to  chatter  with  fright.  But  as  she  did  not 
know  how  to  refuse,  she  got  up  and  accompanied  him  to  where 
there  was  an  empty  space  on  the  floor.  The  band  was  playing  & 
lively  tune  as  a  quadrille,  and  Ailsie,  thinking  anything  better  than 

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The  Fit  of  Aihiea  Shoe.  359 

standing  still,  fell  to  dancing  her  familiar  jig  with  energy.  She  had 
once  slapped  this  gentleman's  face  for  his  impertinence,  and  she 
believed  that  he  had  now  led  her  out  to  avenge  himself  by  her 
confusion.  So  Ailsie  danced  her  jig,  and  finding  that  the  clatter 
of  her  brogues  was  drowned  by  the  music,  she  gained  courage  and 
danced  it  with  spirit,  round  and  round  her  astonished  partner,  till 
the  lookers-on  cried  "  Brava !  "  and  the  laugh  was  turned  against 
MacQuillan  of  the  Reek,  who  was,  after  all,  very  glad  when  she 
made  him  her  curtsey,  and  allowed  him  to  take  her  back  again  to 
the  Bally  Scuffling  maidens,  who  had  not  been  dancing  at  ail,  and 
who  held  up  their  five  fans  before  their  five  faces  in  disgust  at 
Ailsie's  performance. 

A  magic  word,  supper,  acted  like  a  charm  on  all  there.  The 
crowd  thinned  and  disappeared,  and  nobody  noticed  Ailsie.  Every 
gentleman  had  his  own  partner  to  attend  to,  and  no  one  came  near 
the  little  peasant  girl.  Ailsie  was  very  glad,  for  she  would  rather 
endure  hunger  than  be  laughed  at,  and  she  was  just  beginning  to 
nod  asleep  in  her  seat,  when  in  came  Hughie. 

"  I'm  goin'  to  fetch  you  somethin'  to  ate,  darling"  he  said,  and 
hurried  away  again.  And  Ailsie  was  just  beginning  to  nod  asleep 
once  more,  when  in  came  MacQuillan  of  the  Reek,  saying  that  Lady 
Betty  had  sent  him  to  conduct  her  (Ailsie)  to  the  supper-room. 

Lady  Betty  was  sitting  at  the  head  of  the  most  distant  table, 
with  a  knife  in  her  hand,  and  a  huge  cake  before  her.  The  more 
substantial  eatables  seemed  to  have  been  already  discussed,  for  every 
guest  had  a  slice  of  this  cake  on  a  plate  before  him  or  her.  They 
were  nibbling  it,  and  mincing  it  up  with  knives.  All  were  silent, 
and  all  looked  anxious  and  dissatisfied.  Ailsie  thought  the  silence 
and  the  dissatisfaction  were  all  on  account  of  her  audacious  entrance. 

"  This  way !  "  said  Lady  Betty  MacQuillan,  in  a  voice  that 
made  Ailsie  start,  and  the  august  hostess  cleared  a  place  at  her  side 
for  our  blushing  heroine.  The  wax-lights  blazed  on  Lady  Betty's 
golden  turban,  and  Ailsie  did  not  dare  to  look  at  her  face.  She  sat 
down,  and  Lady  Betty  with  her  own  hand  helped  her  to  a  small  cut 
of  the  wonderful  cake.  Ailsie  was  very  hungry,  and  the  cake  was 
very  good.  She  devoured  a  few  morsels  eagerly ;  then  she  ceased 
eating. 

"  Why  don't  you  eat,  child  P  "  said  Lady  Betty,  in  a  voice  that 
again  made  Ailsie  start ;  and  this  time  she  ventured  to  look  up. 

She  looked  up,  and  stared  as  if  the  clouds  had  opened  above  her 
head.  There  was  a  little  withered  yellow  faoe,  with  twinkling 
black  eyes,  looking  down  on  her— a  lace  that  she  had  seen  before. 

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360  The  Fit  of  Ailsie' s  Shoe. 

It  was  Penny  MacCambridge,  from  Lough  Neagh  side,  who  was  to 
have  been  her  godmother  only  for  the  unfortunate  pain  in  her  heel, 
who  was  sitting  there,  dressed  up  in  purple  velvet  and  a  cloth-of- 
gold  turban.  Oh,  murther !  What  would  be  the  end  of  this  ? 
Penny  McOambridge  befooling  all  the  gentry  folks  of  the  country 
round,  pretending  to  be  the  lady  of  Castle  Craigie !  Or,  stay ! 
Whether  was  Penny  McOambridge  acting  Lady  Betty  MacQuillan, 
or  had  Lady  Betty  MacQuillan  been  acting  Penny  McOambridge  P 

"Why  don't  you  eat,  child P  "  repeated  Lady  Betty,  as  Ailsie 
sat  turning  her  piece  of  cake  about  on  her  plate. 

"  I'm  hungry  enough,"  said  Ailsie,  "  but  I  cannot  ate  this,  my 
lady,  barrin*  you  want  me  to  choke  mysel' !  " 

And  Ailsie  held  up  her  bit  of  cake  in  which  was  wedged  the  ring 
that  declared  her  the  heiress  of  Oastle  Craigie. 

Well,  I  need  not  tell  how,  after  supper,  some  of  the  guests  who 
were  spiteful  ordered  their  carriages  and  whirled  away  in  disgust ; 
how  others,  who  were  not  spiteful,  stayed  and  danced  the  morning 
in ;  how  some,  who  were  good  natured,  congratulated  Ailsie  on  her 
good  luck ;  how  others,  who  were  quite  the  reverse,  yet  fawned  on 
the  bewildered  heroine  of  the  evening.  How  Ailsie  was  kept  close 
by  the  wonderful  Lady  Betty  all  the  rest  of  the  time ;  how  she 
watched  in  vain  for  another  glimpse  of  Hughie ;  how,  in  the  end, 
she  was  conducted  to  a  splendid  bedchamber,  where  she  was 
frightened  out  of  her  senses  at  the  grandeur  of  the  furniture,  and 
could  not  get  a  wink  of  sleep  for  the  softness  of  the  stately  bed. 

The  news  was  not  long  in  travelling  over  the  country,  and 
next  day,  when  a  carriage  dashed  up  to  the  foot  of  the  lonan,  Jamie 
and  his  wife  thought  they  were  prepared  to  receive  their  fortunate 
(laughter  with  dignity.  But  when  Ailsie  walked  in  to  them  in  a 
white  pelisse  and  sandalled  slippers,  her  bonnie  dark  eyes  looking 
out  at  them  from  under  a  shade  of  a  pink  satin  hat  and  feathers, 
this  delusion  of  theirs  was  dispelled.  Mary's  exultation  knew  no 
bounds,  and  Jamie  said,  "  Can  this  fine  lady  be  my  daughter  P  " 
nervously,  and  with  tears  in  his  eyes.  And  Ailsie  sat  on  a  chair 
in  the  middle  of  the  floor  she  had  swept  so  often,  and  cried,  and 
pulled  off  her  fine  hat,  and  threw  it  to  the  furthest  corner  of  the 
kitchen,  vowing  she  would  never  leave  her  father  and  mother  to  go 
and  live  with  Lady  Betty.  And  Lady  Betty,  who  was  present,  was 
not  a  bit  angry,  although  the  beautiful  hat  was  spoiled ;  but  began 
telling  how  she  would  educate  Ailsie,  and  take  her  to  see  the  distant 
world,  and  how  she  would  dress  her  like  a  princess,  and  marry  her 
to  some  grand  gentleman,  who  should  either  bear  the  name  of 
MacQuillan,  or  adopt  it. 

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The  Fit  o/Aihie's  Shoe.  361 

But  Ailsie  only  crying  worse  at  this  than  before,  she  threw  a 
purse  of  gold  into  Mary's  lap,  and  began  describing  all  the  good 
things  she  would  do  for  Jamie  and  his  wife  if  Ailsie  would  only 
come  with  her ;  how  she  would  build  them  a  pretty  house ;  how 
they  should  have  servants  to  attend  them,  and  horses  and  cows, 
and  money  at  command.  And  Ailsie,  listening  to  this,  cried  more 
-violently  than  ever,  with  her  swollen  eyes  staring  through  the 
door,  out  to  the  hill  that  led  across  to  Hughie's.  Then,  when  Lady 
Betty  had  done,  Mary  the  mother  began.* 

Ailsie  took  her  eyes  from  the  open  door,  and  looked  at  her  father. 
But  Jamie,  afraid  to  mar  his  child's  brilliant  prospects,  only  hung 
his  head,  and  said  never  a  word  at  all. 

Then  Ailsie's  heart  seemed  to  break  with  one  loud  sob.  "  I'll  go, 
feth !  "  cried  she,  "  an'  may  God  forgive  ye  all ! "  and  rushed  out  of 
the  cottage  and  down  the  lonan,  bareheaded  and  weeping.  Midway 
she  stopped  on  the  road,  and,  pulling  off  one  of  her  pretty  shoes,  she 
flung  it  from  her  with  all  her  might  till  it  struck  the  trunk  of  a  far 
tree  growing  on  the  hill  that  led  to  Hughie's. 

"  That's  the  slipper  to  you,  for  good  luck,  Hughie  Devnish  ! " 
she  said ;  "  an'  if  ever  I  forget  you  to  marry  a  fine  gentleman,  may 
the  Lord  turn  my  gran'  gowns  into  rags  again,  an'  the  bit  that  I 
ate  into  sand  in  my  mouth !  " 

So  Ailsie  said  good-bye  to  home.  The  next  day  Lady  Betty 
and  Miss  MacQuillan  departed  from  Castle  Craigie  for  the 
Continent. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Four  years  passed  away,  and  Jamie  and  Mary  had  grown 
accustomed  to  their  improved  circumstances,  Lady  Betty  having 
proved  as  good  as  her  word  in  bestowing  on  them  all  those  benefits 
which  she  had  enumerated  when  coaxing  Ailsie  away  with  her. 
Whether  they  were  quite  satisfied  with  the  freak  that  fortune 
had  played  with  them,  they  themselves  knew  best.  When  a  neigh- 
bour went  in  to  see  them,  Mary  had  always  some  grand  talk  about 
"  my  daughter,  Miss  MacQuillan ; "  but  the  Widow  Devnish  often 
shook  'her  head,  saying  they  were  dull  enough  when  nobody  was 
by,  and  feared  Ailsie  had  forgotten  them. 

Ned  Mucklehern  and  Mehaffy  the  miller,  had  each  consoled 
himself  with  a  wife  long  ago.  Hughie  Devnish  still  taught  his 
school,  and  his  mother  still  called  him  in  to  his  supper  of  evenings ; 
but  he  was  not  the  same  Hughie,  the  widow  vowed,  never  since 


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862  The  Fit  of  Ailsie' s  Shoe. 

the  night  of  Lady  Betty's  ball,  when  he  had  taken  the  strange 
whim  of  going  serving  at  the  castle.  That  some  one  had  put  a 
charm  on  him  that  night,  from  the  effects  of  which  he  had  never 
recovered,  was  the  Widow  Devnish's  firm  belief.  He  was  "  as 
grave  as  a  judge,"  she  said,  from  morning  till  night,  all  wrapped 
up  in  the  improvement  of  his  school,  never  would  go  to  a  dance  or 
a  fair  like  other  young  men,  and,  say  what  she  might  to  him,  would 
admit  no  thought  of  taking  a  wife,  though  his  means  would  allow 
of  it  now,  since  he  had  got  some  tuitions  among  the  gentry  folks 
of  the  neighbourhood.  The  Widow  Devnish  was  very  proud  of 
her  son,  but  she  was  sorely  afraid  there  was  "  something  on  him.*' 
For,  strangest  of  all,  once,  when  she  came  into  his  schoolroom  at 
dusk  unnoticed,  she  saw  him  looking  at  a  little  kid  shoe,  with  long 
silken  sandals  hanging  from  it.  "  She'll  forget/'  he  was  saying, 
as  he  turned  it  about,  and  wound  the  sandals  round  it,  "  of  course, 
of  course  she'll  forget." 

All  this  time,  while  things  had  been  going  on  so  with  these 
vulgar  and  insignificant  folks  at  home,  neither  Ailsie  nor  Lady 
Betty  had  been  seen  at  Castle  Oraigie.  Lady  Betty  surrounded 
her  prot6g6e  with  French,  Italian,  drawing,  and  music  masters. 
But  with  these  had  Ailsie  concerned  herself  but  little.  "  Hughie 
Devnish  could  never  tache  me,"  she  would  say,  coolly,  when  they 
were  ready  to  wring  their  hands  with  vexation,  "  an'  I  don't  think 
it's  likely  ye're  any  cleverer  than  him."  However,  there  were 
some  things  that  Ailsie  did  learn  in  time.  Being  observant  and 
imitative,  she  acquired  a  habit  of  speaking  tolerable  French,  and 
when  talking  English  she  modified,  though  she  did  not  by  any 
means  give  up,  her  brogue.  She  very  soon  learnt  to  flirt  a  fan,  to 
awry  her  handsome  gowns  with  ease,  and  to  develop  certain  original 
graces  of  manner,  which  were  considered  by  many  to  be  very  charm- 
ing  in  the  pretty  heiress  of  Lady  Betty's  Indian  thousands. 
Altogether,  the  patroness  found  herself  obliged  to  be  content, 
though  the  young  lady  could  read  neither  French  nor  Italian,  nor 
yet  could  she  play  on  the  spinnet  or  guitar. 

Ailsie's  education  being  thus  finished,  Lady.  Betty  set  her  heart 
on  an  ambitious  marriage  for  her  favourite.  She  introduced  her  to 
society  in  Paris,  and  saw  her  making  conquests  right  and  left  at 
the  most  fashionable  watering-places  on  the  Continent.  Ailsie's 
sparkling  eyes  were  enchantingly  foiled  by  her  diamonds,  and 
proposals  in  plenty  were  laid  at  her  feet.  But  Ailsie,  though 
-enjoying  right  merrily  the  homage  so  freely  paid  her,  only  laughed 
at  the  offers  of  marriage,  as  though  it  were  quite  impossible  to 


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The  Fit  qfAihie's  Shoe.  368 

regard  them  as  anything  but  so  many  very  capital  jokes.  Lady 
Betty  did  not  join  in  this  view  of  the  matter,  but  she  had  patience 
with  her  heiress  for  a  considerable  time,  as  Ailsie  always  mollified 
her  displeasure  by  saying,  on  her  refusal  of  each  "  good  match," 
4i 1  will  marry  a  better  man  still,  Lady  Betty." 

After  four  years,  Lady  Betty,  who  was  a  wilful  old  lady,  and 
whose  patience  was  exhausted,  quarrelled  with  her  about  it,  and 
before  she  recovered  her  temper  she  took  ill  and  died, 'and  Ailsie 
found  herself  one  day  sad  and  solitary  in  Paris,  without  the  pro- 
tection of  her  kind  indulgent  friend. 

Tears  would  not  mend  the  matter  now,  nor  would  they  alter 
the  will  which  Lady  Betty  had  left  behind  her,  the  conditions  of 
which  were  fair  enough,  said  Ailsie' s  suitors,  when  the  contents  of 
the  important  document  became  known.  One  year  had  the  impatient 
old  lady  given  her  chosen  heiress,  in  the  space  of  which  time  to 
become  a  wife.  And  if  at  the  end  of  that  year  she  was  still  found 
to  be  a  spinster,  not  a  penny  had  she,  but  might  go  back  to  the 
cottage  at  the  top  of  the  lonan,  and  take  with  her  her  father  and 
mother  to  work  for  them  as  before,  to  milk  her  cows,  and  feed  her 
hens,  and  persuade  herself,  if  she  liked,  that  her  wit,  and  her 
diamonds,  and  her  beauty,  and  her  lovers,  had  all  had  their 
existence  in  a  tantalizing  dream,  which  had  visited  her  between 
roosting-time  in  the  evening  and  cock-crow  of  a  churning  morning. 
But,  should  she  marry  before  the  year  was  out,  bestowing  on  her 
husband  the  name  of  MacQuillan,  then  would  the  shade  of  Lady 
Betty  be  appeased,  and  the  Indian  thousands  and  the  Irish  rentals, 
together  with  the  old  ancestral  halls  of  Castle  Craigie,  would  all 
belong  to  Ailsie  and  the  fortunate  possessor  of  her  wealthy  little 
hand. 

Very  fair  conditions,  said  the  suitors,  and  proposals  poured  in 
on  Ailsie.  But  lo  and  behold !  the  flinty-hearted  damsel  proved 
as  obstinate  as  ever;  and,  in  the  midst  of  wondermentand  disappoint- 
ment, having  attained  the  age  of  twenty-one,  and  being  altogether 
her  own  mistress,  she  wrote  to  her  retainers  at  Castle  Craigie  to 
announce  her  arrival  there  upon  a  certain  summer  day.  Great  was 
the  glory  of  Mary  MacQuillan  when  she  received  a  letter  from  her 
daughter,  desiring  that  her  father  and  mother  should  at  once  take 
up  their  abode  at  the  castle,  being  there  to  receive  her  at  her  arrival. 
Great,  indeed,  was  her  triumph  when  Miss  O'Trimmins  sat  making 
her  a  gown  of  brown  velvet,  and  a  lace  cap  with  lappets,  in  which 
to  meet  her  child,  and  when  Jamie's  blue  coat  with  the  bright  gold 
buttons  came  home. 


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364  The  Fit  of  Ailsie' a  Shoe. 

Ailsie  brought  a  whole  horde  of  foreigners  with  her,  brilliant 
ladies  of  rank,  who  called  her  pet  and  darling  in  broken  English — 
and  needy  marquises — and  counts  with  slender  means,  who  were 
nevertheless  very  magnificent  persons,  and  still  hoped  to  win  the 
Irish  charmer.  Balls,  plays,  and  sports  of  all  kinds  went  on  at  the 
Castle,  and  those  of  the  gentry-folks  who,  from  curiosity,  or  a 
better  feeling,  came  to  visit  Ailsie,  found  her  in  the  midst  of  a  room- 
ful of  glittering  company,  dressed  in  a  blue  satin  sacque  and  pearl 
earrings,  with  her  hair  dipping  into  her  eyes  in  very  bewitching 
little  curls,  and  seated  between  Mary  in  the  brown  velvet 
and  lappets,  and  Jamie  in  the  new  coat  with  the  buttons.  They 
went  away  saying  she  was  wonderful  indeed,  considering,  delight- 
fully odd  and  pretty,  and  they  wondered  which  of  those  flaunting 
foreigners  she  was  going  to  marry  in  the  end.  Meantime  the  year 
was  flying  away,  and  old  neighbours  of  her  mother's  began  to  shake 
their  heads  over  the  fire,  of  nights,  and  to  say  that  if  Ailsie  did 
not  take  care,  she  might  be  a  penniless  lass  yet. 

Things  were  in  this  position,  when,  one  fine  morning,  Miss 
MacQuillan  driving  out  with  some  of  her  grand  friends,  thought 
proper  to  stop  at  the  door  of  Hughie  Devnish's  schoolhouse.  The 
schoolmaster  turned  red  and  then  pale,  as  he  saw  Ailsie's  feathers 
coming  nodding  in  to  him  through  the  doorway,  followed  by  a 
brilliant  party  of  grandees,  and  two  footmen  dragging  a  huge  parcel 
of  presents  for  his  girls  and  boys.  Ailsie  coolly  set  her  ladies  and 
gentlemen  unpacking  the  parcel  and  distributing  its  contents, 
whilst  she  questioned  the  schoolmaster  upon  many  subjects  with 
the  air  of  a  little  duchess,  whose  humour  it  was  to  make  inquiries, 
and  who  never,  certainly,  had  seen  that  place,  much  less  conversed 
with  that  person  before. 

Hughie  endured  her  whim  with  proud  patience,  till,  just  before 
she  left  him,  on  opening  his  desk  to  restore  a  book  to  its  place,  she 
demanded  to  see  a  certain  little  dark  thing  which  was  peeping  out 
from  under  some  papers.  Then,  with  evident  annoyance,  he 
produced  a  little  black  kid  shoe.     So  the  story  runs. 

"  Why,  it's  only  a  slipper !  "  said  Ailsie,  turning  it  about  and 
looking  at  it,  just  as  the  Widow  Devnish  had  detected  Hughie  in 
doing.  "  What  an  odd  thing  to  keep  a  shoe  in  a  desk !  But  it 
looked  like  the  cover  of  a  book.     Good  morning." 

As  the  party  drove  off,  it  is  said  that  one  of  the  gentlemen 
remarked  that  the  schoolmaster  was  a  fine-looking  intelligent  fellow, 
fit  for  a  better  station  than  that  which  he  filled.  And  it  is  further 
said  that  next  day  Ailsie  made  a  present  to  this  gentleman  of  a 
snuff-box  worth  a  hundred  guineas. 
• 


The  Fit  of  Ailsie1 8  bhoe.  365 

When  Ailsie  went  to  her  room  on  her  return  home  on  this 
August  afternoon,  she  walked  over  to  a  handsome  gold  casket  which 
stood  upon  her  table,  unlocked  it,  and  took  out  a  little  kid  slipper 
which  looked  as  if  she  must  have  stolen  it  out  of  Hughie's  desk. 
In  the  sole  of  it  was  pinned  a  slip  of  paper,  on  which  were  scrawled, 
in  a  crude  hand,  the  words : 

"  If  ever  I  forget  you,  Hughie  Devilish,  to  many  a  fine  gentle- 
man, may  the  Lord  turn  my  gran1  gowns  into  Rags  agen,  and  the 
bit  that  I  ate  into  Sand  in  my  mouth." 

"  And  the  Lord's  goin'  to  do  it  very  fast,"  said  Ailsie,  falling 
back  into  her  old  way  of  talking,  as  she  looked  at  this  specimen  of 
her  old  way  of  writing,  "  if  I  do  not  look  to  't  very  soon,  an'  be 
keepin'  my  word !  An'  God  knows,  Hughie  Devnish,"  she  added, 
as  she  locked  her  box  again  with  a  sharp  snap,  "  you're  more  of  a 
gentleman  any  day  the  sun  rises  on  you,  than  ever  poor  Ailsie  '11 
be  of  a  lady !  " 

And  I  am  given  to  understand  that  shortly  after  this,  the  lady 
of  the  castle  sent  a  message  to  her  guests  to  say  she  was  indisposed 
(Ailsie  had  picked  up  a  few  pretty  words)  from  the  heat,  and  must 
beg  them  to  excuse  her  absence  from  amongst  them  for  the  rest  of 
the  day. 

It  was  on  this  very  evening  that  Hughie  Devnish  was  walk- 
ing up  and  down  his  schoolroom  floor,  musing,  I  am  told,  on  the 
impossibility  of  his  enduring  in  the  future  to  have  Ailsie  coming 
into  his  school  at  any  hour  she  pleased,  to  play  the  mischief  with 
his  feelings,  and  the  lady  patroness  amongst  his  boys  and  girls. 
He  had  just  come  to  the  point  of  resolving  to  give  up  his  labours 
here,  and  to  go  off  to  seek  his  fortune  in  America,  when  click ! 
went  the  latch  of  the  door,  and  (of  course,  thinks  he,  it  must  be  a 
dream),  in  walked  Ailsie.  Not  the  Lady  Bountiful  of  the  morning, 
in  satin  gown  and  nodding  feathers,  but  the  veritable  old  Ailsie  of 
four  years  ago,  in  the  same  old  garb,  cotton  dress,  brogues,  straw 
bonnet  tipped  over  her  nose,  and  all  (where  on  earth  did  she  get 
them  P)  in  which  she  had  tripped  in  to  him  on  that  other  August 
evening,  of  which  this  was  the  anniversary,  when  she  had  shown 
him  her  invitation  to  Lady  Betty's  ball. 

Now,  the  gloaming  was  just  putting  out  the  glare  of  the  sunset 
behind  the  latticed  windows,  and  when  Hughie  had  pinched  himself 
and  found  that  he  was  not  dreaming  at  all,  he  next  became  very 
sure,  that  he  had  gone  out  of  his  senses  with  trouble,  and  that  he 

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366  The  Fit  of  Ailsie's  Shoe. 

was  looking  at  an  object  conjured  up  before  his  eyes  by  his  own 
diseased  imagination.  However,  the  apparition  looked  very  sub* 
atantial  as  it  approached,  and  sitting  down  on  the  end  of  one  of  the 
forms,  it  displayed  a  paper  which  it  unfolded  in  its  hands — hands 
that  were  white  instead  of  brown,  making  the  only  difference 
between  this  and  the  old  Ailsie. 

"  I've  got  a  letther  here,  Misther  Devnish,"  said  Ailsie's  old 
voice,  speakiDg  with  Ailsie's  old  brogue,  and  in  the  sly,  mischievous 
tone  that  Hughie  remembered  well :  "  an1,  if  ye  plase,  I  want  ye 
to  answer  it  for  me.     I'm  a  bad  dark  mysel',  ye  know." 

Not  knowing  what  to  say  to  her,  he  took  the  letter  out  of  her 
hand  and  glanced  over  it.  It  was  a  proposal  of  marriage  from 
Ailsie's  old  tormentor,  MacQuillan  of  the  Reek. 

The  schoolmaster  was  trembling,  you  may  believe,  with  many 
confused  ideas  and  sensations  when  he  folded  the  letter  and  returned 
it ;  but  he  inked  his  pen  manfully,  and  produced  a  sheet  of  paper, 
then  sat  waiting  with  much  patience  for  his  visitor's  dictation.  But 
Ailsie  sat  quiet,  with  her  eyes  upon  the  floor,  and  so  there  was  a 
cruel  pause. 

"  Well  P  "  says  Hughie,  at  last,  with  a  bewitched  feeling,  as  if 
he  were  addressing  only  his  pupil  of  old  days,  "  what  am  I  to  say 
in  the  answer  P  " 

"  Feth,  I  don't  know,"  says  Ailsie. 

"But  what  regply  do  you  mean  to  give P  "  asked  Hughie,  striving, 
we  are  assured,  to  command  himself.  "  Am  I  to  say  yes  or  no  in 
the  letter  P  " 

"  I  tell  ye  1  don't  know,  Hughie  Devnish,"  said  Ailsie,  crossly. 
"  I  gave  a  promise  to  another,  an'  he  never  has  freed  me  from  it 
yet.     I  b'lieve  ye'U  know  best  what  to  put  in  the  letther  yersel'." 

"  Ailsie  ! "  cried  Hughie,  rising  to  his  feet,  "  did  you  come  here 
for  nothing  but  to  dhrive  me  mad  P  Or,  avourneen,  is  it  possible 
you  would  marry  me  yet  P  " 

"  Feth  it  is,  Hughie,"  said  Ailsie. 

And  after  the  letter  was  written  they  went  in  and  had  tea  with 
the  Widow  Devnish. 

The  next  morning  Miss  MacQuillan  appeared  amongst  her 
guests  as  if  nothing  had  happened,  but  before  night  a  whisper 
flew  from  ear  to  ear  that  the  heiress  was  engaged ;  while  the  lady 
herself  did  not  contradict  the  report.  Every  man  looked  darkly 
at  his  neighbour,  and  "  Who  is  he  P  "  was  the  question  on  every 
lip.    At  last  "  It  is  not  I,"  said  one  noble  drone,  and  flew  off  to 


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The  Roman  Poefs  Prayer.  367 

seek  honey  elsewhere :  and  "  It  is  not  I,"  said  the  others,  one  by 
one,  and  followed  his  example;  and  by-and-by  Ailsie  was  left 
peacefully  in  possession  of  her  castle ;  whereupon  there  was  a  quiet 
wedding,  at  which  Mary,  Jamie,  and  the  Widow  Devnish  were  the 
only  guests. 

A  nine  days'  wonder  expires  on  the  tenth,  and  after  a  few  years 
Hugh  Devnish  MacQuillan,  Esq.,  was  looked  upon  as  no  despicable 
person  by  many  who  thought  it  their  duty  to  sneer  on  his  wedding- 
day. 


THE  ROMAN  POET'S  PRAYER. 

(Horace,  Book  L,  Ode  31.) 

WHEN,  kneeling  at  Apollo's  shrine, 
The  bard  from  silver  goblet  pours 
Libation  due  of  votive  wine, 
What  seeks  he,  what  implores  ? 

Not  harvests  from  Sardinia's  shore  5 

Not  grateful  herds  that  crop  the  lea 
In  hot  Calabria ;  not  a  store 

Of  gold,  and  ivory. 

Not  those  fair  lands  where  slow  and  deep 
Through  meadows  rich,  and  pastures  gay 

Thy  silent  waters,  Liris,  creep 
Eating  the  marge  away. 

Let  him  to  whom  the  Gods  award 

Calenian  vineyards,  prune  the  vine ; 
The  merchant  sell  his  balms  and  ware, 

And  drain  the  precious  wine 

From  cups  of  gold  j  to  Fortune  dear 

Because  his  laden  argosy 
Crosses,  unshattered,  thrice  a  year 

The  storm- vexed  Midland  sea. 

Ripe  berries  from  the  olive  bough, 

Mallows,  and  endives,  be  my  fare, 
Son  of  Latona  I    Hear  my  vow  j 

Apollo !  grant  my  prayer. 

Health  to  enjoy  thejblessings  sent 
From  Heaven ;  a  mind  unclouded,  strong ; 

A  cheerful  heart ;  a  wise  content ; 
An  honoured  age ;  and  Song. 

Stxphkn  DB  V*M. 


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(    368    ) 


FREDERICK  LUCAS-* 
By  the  Rev.  Peter  Finlay,  S, J. 

CATHOLICS  are  deeply  indebted  to  Mr.  Edward  Lucas  for  his 
brother's  Life.  It  is  a  most  welcome  addition  to  our  scanty 
store  of  good  biographies.  We  have  translations  from  the  French 
in  plenty — in  too  great  plenty,  many  think,  who  regret  that  literary 
ability  should  be  so  often  wasted  in  clothing  very  commonplace 
foreigners  with  an  English  dress.  But,  if  we  except  Saints'  lives,  we 
have  very  few  biographies  which  can  be  of  real  interest  to  readers  of 
our  own  time  and  country,  and  we  have  scarcely  any  that  can  interest 
an  educated  Catholic  layman,  or  set  before  him  a  higher  purpose  in 
existence  than  money  and  position.  We  need  books  that  will  show 
us  men  who  have  lived  noble  lives  in  our  own  days  and  in  our  own 
land,  who  have  been  in  the  world,  yet  were  not  of  it,  who  have 
fulfilled  every  duty  to  their  country,  their  family,  and  their  friends, 
and  have  been  guided  always  and  everywhere  by  the  principles  of 
their  Faith.  The  "  Life  of  Frederick  Lucas  "  shows  us  one  such 
man  ;  and  we  thank  his  brother  for  it. 

Lucas  was  born  in  London,  in  1812.  Both  his  parents 
belonged  to  the  Society  of  Friends ;  and  he  himself,  during  youth 
and  early  manhood,  was  fully  satisfied  with  the  religion  they  had 
taught  him.  But  not  long  after  his  call  to  the  bar,  in  1835,  his 
thoughts  began  to  turn  towards  Catholicism ;  the  Oxford  Move- 
ment helped  to  stimulate  his  inquiries ;  and  early  in  1839  he  was 
received  into  the  Church.  From  that  moment  his  religion  became 
the  controlling  influence  of  his  life.  It  was  not  a  garment  for 
Sunday  wear,  to  be  kept  sacred  from  the  desecration  of  week-day 
work.  It  was  a  part  of  the  man,  which  he  could  as  little  put  away 
from  him  as  the  sense  of  truthfulness  and  honesty  by  which  he 
shaped  his  public  and  his  private  actions.  He  did  not  believe  in  a 
purely  speculative  theology.  He  did  not  even  accept  the  theory  that 
religious  truth  has  achieved  its  purpose,  when  it  dictates  our  choice 
of  a  place  for  public  worship.  He  held  that  religion,  if  it  be  any- 
thing better  than  a  mere  philosophy,  must  colour  a  man's  whole 

*  "The  Life  of  Frederick  Lucas,  M.P.,by  his  brother,  Edward  Lucas."' 
(2  vols.  Burns  and  Oates,  1886.) 


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Frederick  Lucas.  369 

life,  must  be  the  test  by  which  everything  is  tried,  must  be  the 
supreme  interest  for  which  the  man  will  do  and  suffer.  This  entire 
devotion  to  religion,  and  the  duties  which  religion  points  to,  I 
believe  to  have  been  the  leading  feature  in  Frederick  Lucas* 
character,  the  secret  of  much  that  is  most  admirable  in  it,  and  the 
explanation  of  all  that  appears  liable  to  blame.  It  cannot  be  with- 
out profit  for  us  to  dwell  at  some  little  length  upon  it. 

The  state  of  Catholic  affairs  was  far  from  satisfactory  at  the 
time  of  Lucas'  conversion.  O'Connell  and  the  Irish  had  won 
Emancipation  just  ten  years  before.  They  were  eager  to  make 
their  triumph  a  tangible  reality,  to  verify  in  facts  the  language  of 
the  statute  book;  and  for  the  redress  of  religious  grievances, 
which  were  many  and  intolerable,  the  Catholics  of  Ireland  were 
practically  united.  In  England  it  was  far  otherwise.  The  English 
Catholics  had  taken  little  part  in  the  struggle  for  Emancipation. 
The  Gordon  riots  had  as  utterly  undermined  their  courage  as  the 
Revolution  had  undermined  that  of  the  old  nobility  of  France.  It 
was  a  tradition  amongst  them  that  protest  against  injustice  should 
never  become  vehement  or  loud-voiced,  and  that  the  safest  remedy 
against  governmental  wrong,  as  the  doctors  of  "  divine  right "  had 
taught  them,  was  patient  suffering  and  prayer.  The  upper  class 
amongst  them  looked  on  O'Connell  and  his  associates  as  rather  vulgar 
agitators.  Co-operation  with  him  was  impossible.  It  was  degrada- 
tion enough  to  owe  their  freedom  to  him,  to  have  shared  in  the 
spoils  of  his  victory*  And  yet  they  were  anxious  to  possess  an 
organ  in  the  Press — one,  however,  that  should  plead  their  cause  in 
gentle  words,  and  pay  for  every  crumb  of  justice  with  effusive 
thanks,  and  maintain,  generally,  the  best  traditions  of  Catholic 
■"  respectability."  Singularly  enough,  Mr.  Lucas  was  invited  to 
conduct  the  paper;  and  so  the  convert  of  one  year's  standing 
became  the  prominent  representative  of  Catholicism  in  England. 
The  case  is  partly  paralleled  by  Disraeli's  leadership  of  the  Tories  ; 
but  Disraeli  was  able  to  educate' his  party,  while  Lucas  tried  and 
failed  to  do  as  much  for  his.  The  very  motto  of  the  first  Tablet — 
Burke's  saying  "  My  errors,  if  any,  are  my  own ;  I  have  no  man's 
proxy  " — might  have  shown,  at  the  outset,  that  he  was  not  quite 
fitted  for  the  position.  This  became  still  more  clear,  some  three 
years  later,  when  he  placed  an  image  of  Our  Lady  and  the  Divine 
Infant  at  the  head  of  the  leading  columns.  Such  open  and 
unnecessary  profession  of  a  peculiarly  Catholic  belief — one,  too, 
which  the  Protestant  public  misunderstood  and  misrepresented — 
was  distasteful  to  many  of  his  English  co-religionists.     "The 

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870  Frederick  Lucas. 

sacred  privacy  of  religion  "  formed  the  text  for  many  a  pressing 
appeal  to  him,  and  for  many  a  threat.  But  Lucas  held  firm. 
"Privacy  of  religion"  he  detested  heartily;  and  he  answered 
to  the  threats  that  "  all  the  subscribers  within  the  four  seas  should 
not  tempt  him  to  a  change."  His  attitude,  again,  towards  the 
Tractarian  Movement  gave  much  offence  to  many  "  charitable  * 
Catholics.  There  was  then,  as  there  is  still,  a  disposition  on  the 
part  of  some,  to  minimize  religious  differences,  to  dilute  Catholic 
doctrines,  soften  down  truths  that  grate  upon  heretical  susceptibili- 
ties, and  make  the  most  of  whatever  shreds  of  revealed  dogma  the 
sectaries  have  retained.  Well-intentioned  and  zealous  'Catholics 
looked  to  such  means  for  a  "  reunion  of  the  Churches."  But  Lucas 
was  not  of  the  number.  He  could  not  be  convinced  that  there  is 
anywhere  a  divine  commission  to  compromise  the  truth ;  he  laughed 
at  "  the  Churches,"  for  Jie  knew  there  can  be  only  one ;  he  set 
little  value  on  the  remnants  of  belief  which  heresy  has  preserved, 
for  he  had  learned  that  Faith  is  not  an  inheritance  which  may  be 
divided  into  lots  to  suit  thfe  varying  tastes  of  purchasers.  Then, 
too,  his  treatment  of  Catholic  Parliamentary  politics  created  much 
dissatisfaction.  The  man  who  wrote  of  an  Education  Bill,  which 
the  Earl  of  Arundel  and  Surrey  declared,  "as  a  Catholic,"  in  the 
House  of  Commons,  to  be  "  framed  in  a  most  just  and  fair  spirit/* 
that  it  was  "  infernal ;  w  who  wrote  of  Lord  Surrey  himself :  "  we 
believe  him  to  be  utterly  disqualified  by  habits  and  education  to 
pronounce  a  rational  opinion  on  what  is  and  what  is  not  consistent 
with  the  tenets  and  discipline  of  our  Church ; "  who  said  of 
the  "  good  society  "  that  was  scandalized  by  his  plain  speaking : 
u  we  regard  it  as  a  corrupt  heap  of  religious  indifference,  of  half 
faith,  of  cowardice,  of  selfishness,  of  unmanly  impotence/*  and 
then  added:  "if  the  Tablet  were  to  sink  to-morrow,  our  only 
regret  would  be,  that  we  have  not  found  words  acfequate  to 
express  the  indignation  with  whjch  the  conduct  of  '  good  society' 
in  these  matters  inflames  and  overwhelms  us  " — such  a  man  was 
surely  a  strange  spokesman  for  the  Catholics  of  England. 

Naturally,  Mr.  Lucas  met  with  opposition.  Bitter  opposition 
from  those  without  was,  of  course,  to  be  expected ;  and,  in  the 
circumstances,  opposition  even  from  some  "  of  the  household  of 
the  faith"  was  unavoidable,  if  his  work  was  to  be  thorough.  St. 
Philip  Neri  it  was  who  held  that  the  enmity  of  some  good  men  is 
a  necessary  test  of  all  great  religious  undertakings.  It  must,  how-  % 
ever,  be  admitted  that  Mr.  Lucas*  methods  had  no  tendency  ta 
conciliate  an  adversary.    It  was  made  a  charge  against  him  that 

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Frederick  Lucas.  371 

lie  could  not  be  induced  "  to  catch  flies  with  honey ;  "  and,  possibly, 
in  some  instances,  his  immediate  success  would  have  been  greater 
had  his  controversial  phraseology  been  less  plain  and  vigorous.  It 
would  have  been  better,  perhaps,  to  trust  more  to  his  readers' 
imagination  and  powers  of  inference.  But  it  should  be  borne  in 
mind  that  the  tone  of  English  Catholic  opinion  was  deplorably 
low,  when  he  entered  upon  public  life.  "  We  actually  stood  tremblings 
in  presence  of  Englishmen  and  Irishmen,  as  if  we  owed  them  an 
apology  for  being  Catholics/'  said  the  Rambler,  some  years  later, 
describing  the  change  which  had  been  wrought  by  Lucas.  He  had 
to  teach  men  to  use  their  rights,  to  think  and  to  speak  as  freemen  ; 
to  force  upon  them  a  policy  and  a  language  that  ran  counter  to  all 
their  feelings  and  traditions.  He  adopted  such  means  as  military 
commanders  use  when  young  soldiers  waver  under  a  heavy  fire  ; 
and  his  indignation  and  his  ridicule  were  ultimately  far  more 
beneficial  to  the  Catholic  cause  than  the  most  varied  forms  of 
gentle  exhorjtation. 

His  zeal,  however,  was  not  all  polemical.  The  Society  of  St. 
Vincent  de  Paul,  which  now  counts  137  conferences  in  England, 
was  established  mainly  through  his  exertions;  though  press  of 
occupations  made  him  decline  the  invitation  to  become  its  president- 
He  aided  powerfully  in  the  formation  of  the  Society  of  St.  Thomas 
of  Canterbury,  intended  to  replace  the  Catholic  Institute,  which 
had  grown  effete.  He  gave  earnest  attention  to  the  religious  and 
social  condition  of  the  poor,  and  laboured  to  organize  means  for 
the  building  of  Catholic  churches  a&d  schools,  and  for  the  educa- 
tion of  the  clergy.  In  fact,  no  plan  could  be  suggested  for  the 
advancement  of  the  Faith  and  the  salvation  of  souls  which  Lucas 
was  not  prompt  to  advocate  by  voice  and  pen,  and  to  assist  with 
money  and  personal  co-operation. 

Yet  his  position  became  more  and  more  untenable.  The 
enemies  of  his  policy  within  the  Catholic  body  and  even  among  the 
clergy,  on  whom  the  Tablet  largely  depended,  became  so  numerous 
and  so  embittered,  that  he  resolved  on  removing  to  Dublin. 

He  had  come  to  Ireland  in  1843,  at  the  crisis  of  the  Repeal 
Movement.  An  anti-Repealer  at  first,  on  the  ground  that  "  in  the 
Supreme  Legislature  of  the  Empire  the  Catholic  Church  would  be 
shorn  of  nine-tenths  of  its  strength/9  if  the  Irish  Members  were 
withdrawn,  he  had  changed  his  views,  when  convinced  that  the 
f  Union  was  unjust.  On  the  questions  of  the  "  Godless  Colleges  " 
and  the  "  Charitable  Bequests  Act "  he  had  sided  strongly  with 
Dr.  MacHale  and  his  fellow  Bishops  against  the  two  Primates, 

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372  Frederick  Lucas. 

Dr.  Murray  and  Dr.  Crolly.  During  the  terrible  years  of  famine, 
there  were  no  more  touching  appeals  for  the  Irish  poor,  or  fiercer 
denunciation  of  Ministerial  criminality  and  folly  than  those 
written  by  him.  His  interest  in  Irish  affairs,  especially  Irish 
Catholic  affairs,  had  been  unceasing.  He,  the  English  Catholic, 
had  shown  a  fairness  and  a  sympathy  towards  Catholic  Ireland, 
which  was  as  rare  then  as  it  is  now ;  and  when  he  finally  decided 
on  coming  to  live  in  Dublin,  he  was  assured  of  a  heartfelt  welcome. 
He  came  in  1850,  and  brought  the  Tablet  with  him.  It  remained, 
of  course,  a  distinctively  Catholic  paper ;  but  it  gained  at  once  an 
influence  and  a  recognition  which  it  never  had  before.  The 
London  Times,  which  had  ignored  it  while  in  London,  began  to  quote 
its  pages  as  the  accredited  organ  of  Catholic  opinion ;  and  Lord 
Clarendon  complained  to  Lord  Shrewsbury,  then  in  Borne,  that  the 
Tablet  "  one  of  the  most  virulent  and  most  offensive  newspapers  in 
Europe  ...  is  known  to  speak  with  authority  "  about  ecclesiastical 
measures.  Just  then,  even  before  Lucas  had  been  m^de  "  free  of 
the  country,"  as  he  termed  it,  by  an  action  for  libel,  "  tried  accord- 
ing to  the  manner  prevalent  here,  by  a  packed  jury  and  a  judge 
whose  charge  was  more  effective  than  the  speeches  of  counsel  for 
the  plaintiff/1  "Papal  Aggression"  set  England  in  a  flame. 
Lucas9  view  of  the  situation  was  characteristic.  "As  a  mere 
religious  question,"  he  wrote  in  a  private  letter,  "  I  would  willingly 
— if  I  could  afford  it — have  paid  down  £1,000  to  purchase  Lord 
John's  letter  and  its  consequences."  It  stirred  up  religious  feeling, 
it  gave  promise  of  some  religious  persecution,  it  forced  Cardinal 
Wiseman  into  opposition  to  the  Government,  it  compelled  the 
Catholic  Members  of  Parliament  to  unite  in  defence  of  the 
Catholic  causes-all  of  them,  things  which  Lucas  held  to  be  of 
very  great  importance.  It  led  also  to  another  result,  which,  if 
Lucas'  policy  had  been  adopted,  would  have  been  more  important 
stillr— the  formation  of  the  Catholic  Defence  Association,  and  of 
the  Independent  Parliamentary  Opposition.  It  is  not  intended 
to  deal  in  these  pages  with  Mr.  Lucas'  political  career ;  though  it 
should  give  him  a  place  beside  Thomas  Drummond  in  the  hearts 
and  memories  of  all  who  know  Ireland's  history  and  are  touched 
by  her  wrongs.  I  mention  the  Independent  Opposition  only 
because  Lucas  became  a  member  of  it  by  his  election  for  Meath, 
in  1852. 

It  is  a  miserable  epoch  to  look  back  upon.     Too  many  of  the 
ohief  Irish  actors  in  it  are  ignoble  figures ;  but  it  is  pleasant  to 


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Frederick  Lucas.  37£ 

find  that  they  feared  and  hated  LuCas.  In  a  private  letter  to  a 
friend,  lie  writes  :  "I  go  into  the  House  of  Commons  to  stand, 
I  fear,  very  nearly  alone,  a  member  of  an  unpopular  minority,  an 
unpopular  member  of  that  minority,  and  disliked  even  by  the 
greater  number  of  the  small  party  with  which  I  am  to  act,  and 
having  cast  upon  me  in  a  prominent  manner  the  defence  of  the 
two  noblest  causes  in  the  world — that  of  a  religion  which  requires 
great  learning  to  defend  properly,  and  that  of  the  most  ill-treated 
and  (in  all  essential  qualities  of  heart  and  character)  the  noblest 
population  that  ever  existed  on  the  face  of  the  earth."  He  entered  • 
Parliament  under  most  serious  disadvantages.  He  was  a  convert, 
an  Englishman  with  Irish  sympathies,  a  member  for  an  Irish 
constituency,  a  Catholic  who  believed  in  his  religion  and  acted  fully 
up  to  it,  a  politician  who  had  no  price.  Not  long  before  his  election 
he  had  written  of  the  English  Commons  in  a  way  which  would  be  » 
pronounced  vehement  even  now.  An  English  Protestant  Member, 
during  the  debate  on  the  Ecclesiastical  Titles  Bill  had  described 
"  Catholic  Nunneries  as  either  prisons  or  brothels,"  and  had  gone 
on  to  speak  of  our  Lady  in  words  which  I  dare  not  transcribe. 
Of  course  a  wild  tumult  followed.  George  Henry  Moore  and 
other  Irish  Members  insisted  on  an  apology;  but  the  Speaker 
decided  that  the  language  was  quite  allowable,  and  the  House 
applauded  his  decision.  In  his  comments  on  the  scene,  Lucas  first 
characterised  the  Protestant  member  as  "  a  filthy  person/'  and  then 
went  on  to  excuse  the  action  of  the  Speaker.  This  is  the  excuse : 
"  The  House  of  Commons,  it  seems,  is  a  house  of  gentlemen  and 
has  a  dignity  to  preserve ;  but  both  its  dignity  and  gentility  are  of 
a  very  peculiar  kind.  Neither  of  these  things  is  in  any  way 
offended  by  coarse  sarcasms  against  religion  or  the  filthiest  ribaldry 
against  the  honour  of  women.  If  these  outrages  had  been  at 
variance  with  the  notions  entertained  in  Parliament  of  dignity  and 
decorum,  Mr.  Henry  Drummond  would  have  been  out  of  order ; 
but  he  was  not  out  of  order  because  the  majority  of  the  House  do 
not  stand  upon  such  trifles,  and  have  tastes  as  foul  and  filthy  as 
himself." 

Yet  his  success  in  Parliament  was  signal  and  immediate.  His 
earliest  set  speech  gave  him  rank  in  the  very  first  line  of 
Parliamentary  debaters,  and  succeeding  speeches  only  added  to  his 
reputation.  Even  prejudice  went  down  before  his  singular  ability, 
his  disinterestedness,  and  earnestness  of  purpose.  In  a  short  time  he 
came  to  be  regarded  as  a  power  in  the  House.  "  He  was  not  only 
listened  to  and  respected,"  the  Rambler  says;  "he  was  urftfally 

Vol.  xiv.  No.  167.  ^   28     T 

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374  Frederick  Lucas. 

replied  to  b y  a  Cabinet  Minister/'  And  this  position  was  all  the 
more  remarkable,  because,  while  he  used  it  almost  solely  for  two 
objects — the  advantage  of  the  Irish  poor  and  that  of  the  Catholic 
Religion — it  was  notorious  that  several  of  the  chief  ecclesiastical 
dignitaries  of  Ireland  were  entirely  opposed  to  his  Parliamentary 
policy.  In  Parliament  itself,  he  stood  almost  alone;  he  clung 
unchangeably  to  the  principles  which  the  Irish  Catholics,  lay  and 
clerical,  had  publicly  adopted,  and  the  wisdom  of  which  time  has 
clearly  vindicated.  Recent  history  offers  no  more  perfect  pattern 
of  lofty-minded  self-sacrificing  courage.  His  "  extreme  Catholic 
views/'  as  they  were  often  called,  had  alienated  many  of  his  former 
friends.  No  worldly  gain,  but  rather  serious  loss,  was  to  be  expected 
in  the  path  he  had  selected.  He  oould  command  a  high  price  in 
the  political  market ;  and,  judging  by  the  approval  bestowed  on 
others  who  had  gone  over  to  the  Government,  he  need  have  feared 
no  very  marked  censures  if  he  followed  their  example.  There 
were  men,  too,  religiously  disposed  and  thoroughly  sincere,  who 
believed  that  Catholic  interests  might  be  safely  trusted  to  the 
honour  and  the  justice  of  an  English  Ministry.  Nearly  every 
motive  pointed  to  the  expediency  of  burying  decently  his  principles. 
But  he  was  no  worshipper  of  expediency.  He  fought  the  Parlia- 
mentary battles  of  the  Church  and  of  the  poor,  while  liberty  to 
fight  remained ;  and  when  that,  too,  seemed  threatened,  he  went  to 
plead  the  cause  at  Rome,  where  the  ultimate  decision  lay.  The 
Roman  climate  and  the  anxiety  and  labours  connected  with  his 
business  told  fatally  upon  his  already  weakened  health  j  and  in 
May,  1855,  he  returned  to  England  only  to  die. 

"  At  such  an  age,"  wrote  Father  Whitty,  one  of  Mr.  Lucas' 
earliest  and  staunchest  friends,  "  if  it  was  God's  will,  it  was  hard 
not  to  wish  him  to  live.  But  for  one  who  knew  him  intimately, 
who  knew  how  little  he  cared  for  this  world  even  at  its  best,  and 
how  much  he  longed  for  the  other,  it  was  harder  still  not  to  wish 
him  to  die/'  "  Thank  God,  I  have  no  wish  to  live,"  Lucas  wrote 
himself  to  Father  Tom  O'Shea ;  "  I  ask  for  no  prayers  for  restora- 
tion to  health.  I  have  never  valued  life  very  much,  and  now  less 
than  ever."  Then,  after  referring  to  the  sad  persecution  which 
had  fallen  on  Father  O'Shea,  he  adds,  what  must  have  been  his 
dying  judgment  of  his  own  career :  "  As  sure  as  God  is  in  heaven, 
your  cause  is  the  cause  of  truth  and  honour;  and  when  your  last 
hour  comes  you  will  feel  what  consolation  it  gives  a  man  never  to 
have  flinched  in  the  worst  of  times — as  I  may  say  of  you — or 


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Frederick  Lucas.  375 

given  way  in  the  public  service  to  selfish  personal  considera- 
tions." 

To  some  it  seemed  as  though  he  were  passing  away  under  the 
shadow  of  defeat.  Memory  goes  back  to  Hildebrand  dying  at 
Salerno,  because  he  had  "  loved  justice  and  hated  iniquity/' 
when  we  think  of  Lucas  on  his  deathbed  in  the  little  English 
village.  But  such  men  never  are  defeated.  Their  real  greatness 
lies  in  this,  that  their  work  lives  and  fructifies ;  later  generations 
reap  its  best  fruits.  We  ourselves  are  harvesting  what  Lucas 
sowed.  And  further,  the  happy  results  of  his  policy  and  of  his 
labours  were  great  and  abundant  even  within  his  lifetime.  "  On 
the  Catholic  mind  of  England/'  as  a  hostile  critic  said,  "  no  man 
since  Dr.  Milner  had  imprinted  so  deep  a  mark."  By  his  writings 
and  by  his  example  he  taught  them  what  single-minded,  fearless 
advocacy  of  right  can  bring  about.  Catholic  schools.  Catholic 
military  and  naval  chaplaincies,  the  treatment  of  Catholic  poor  in 
workhouses  and  orphanages,  and  of  Catholic  criminals  in  prisons, 
Irish  Church  Disestablishment,  all  these  and  many  other  questions 
had  been  dealt  with  by  him  in  Parliament  as  well  as  in  the  Press. 
He  had  spoken  as  no  English  Catholic  ever  spoke  before ;  he  had 
won  respect  for  himself,  and  substantial  benefits  for  religion.  The 
benefits  remain ;  and  the  lesson  has  not  been  quite  forgotten. 

In  Ireland  his  influence  was  unbounded.  "  Give  my  love  to  all 
my  friends  in  Meath,"  he  said  to  an  Irish  priest,  who  saw  him 
some  days  before  he  died — "  that  is,"  he  added,  pleasantly,  "if  you 
can.9'  And  Meath  only  held  first  place  in  the  long  list  of  Irish 
dioceses.  Mr.  Cashel  Hoey  implied  a  simple  truth,  when  he  said : 
"  Better  his  green  sod  bedewed  with  a  nation9 8  tears,  than  the 
ermined  honours  of  corruption."  The  people  loved  and  trusted 
him  as  they  have  probably  never  loved  or  trusted  any  man  except 
O'Connell ;  the  priesthood  almost  to  a  man  were  with  him  heart  and 
soul ;  and  the  wisest  and  best  of  the  bishops,  with  Dr.  Cantwell  of 
Meath  and  the  great  Archbishop  of  Tuam,  never  wavered  in  their 
support  and  friendship.  We  had  already  learned  in  Ireland  to 
bear  ourselves  as  Catholics.  O'Connell  had  taught  us  that,  and 
the  lesson  had  taken  firm  hold  upon  the  hearts  of  the  people.  But 
there  were  still  many  civil  and  religious  rights  to  be  acquired ; 
and  ite  spent  himself  in  striving  for  them.  Above  all,  "  at  a  time 
of  base  political  morals,  when  venality  was  the  rule  and  principle 
the  exception ;  when  the  renegade  and  apostate  were  smiled  upon 
and  applauded;  when  the  question  was  rather  how  to  sell  than  to 


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376  Jiemenibfattoe. 

serve' one's  country,"  his  truth;  and  honesty,  and  public  virtue  were, 
of  inestimable  value. 

May  the  story  of  his  life,  as  told  in  his  brother's  most  interest- 
ing volumes,  produce  the  result  which  he  himself  would  have  most 
earnestly  desired — a  zealous  love  of  religion  and  of  Christ's  poor, . 
and  a  conviction  that  there  catit  be  no  nobler  cause  in  which  a  man- 
may  toil  and  suffer. 


REMEMBRANCE. 

EEMEMBERING  thee,  I  search  out  these  faint  flowers 
Of  rhyme ;  remembering  thee,  this  crescent  night, 
While  o'er  the  buds,  and  o'er  the  grass-blades,  bright 
And  clinging  with  the  dew  of  odorous  showers, 
With  purple  sandals  sweep  the  grave -eyed  hours — 
Remembering  thee,  I  muse,  while  fades  in  flight 
The  honey -hearted  leisure  of  the  light, 
And  hanging  o'er  the  hush  of  willow  bowers, 

Of  ceaseless  loneliness  and  high  regret 
Sings  the  young  wistful  spirit  of  a  star 
Enfolden  in  the  shadows  of  the  East, 
And  silence  holding  revelry  and  feast  J" 
Just  now  my  soul  rose  up  and  touched  it,  far 
In  space,  made  equal  with  a  sigh,  we  met. 

W.  B.  Yeats. 


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W 


NOVEMBER  IN  A  GREEK  ISLAND. 
By  Hannah  Lynch. 

HILE  skies  at  home  are  grey  and  the  land  enveloped  in 
winter's  cold,  dark  shroud — flowers,  foliage,  sunshine 
equally  past — here  we  enjoy  the  lovely  summery  colours  and  long 
bright  days.  We  have  had  one  week  of  cold  and  rain,  which,  but 
for  the  tropical  nature  of  the  rain  that  poured  upon  the  earth  in 
volumes,  rather  resembled  that  which  one  might  remember  in  the 
front  of  June,  and  at  the  end  of  the  week  everyone  was  sincerely 
thankful  for  what  the  heavy  moisture  had  brought.  All  the  newly- 
sown  grain  started  up  in  waves  of  clearest  emerald,  making  a  rich 
velvet  shine  of  the  brown  and  whitish-mauve  hill-sides.  Through 
the  gardens  and  orchards  the  green  of  the  trees  took  a  deeper  tint, 
and  the  maiden-hair,  which  makes  curtains  of  its  own  delicate 
tracing  along  the  torrent-beds,  sometimes  edging  the  marble  rocks 
as  they  run  down  to  the  valleys,  sometimes  festooning  itself  with 
unimaginable  grace  from  the  top  of  the  waterfalls,  became  the 
loveliest  memory  from  fairyland.  On  the  second  of  November  I 
spent  the  entire  day  wandering  up  craggy  mountain-sides  and 
down  steep  valley  pathways.  It  seems  like  a  joke  to  say  out  of 
Australia,  that  the  day  was  almost  as  warm  as  that  of  my  first 
acquaintance  with  Syra.  It  is  needless  to  speak  of  the  colour  of 
the  Mediterranean  or  the  Grecian  skies.  We  are  in  December 
now,  and  except  under  the  transient  influence  of  rain  I  have  not- 
seen  either,  other  than  the  proverbial  sapphire  tint,  unless  when 
the  hours  grow  cooler,  and  then  the  intense  depth  of  sapphire 
changes  to  the  softest  azure.  The  hill-tops  were  ablaze  in  the 
early  sunshine,  and  where  a  shoulder  of  mountain  broke  over 
another,  it  lay  upon  the  sea  of  golden  light,  a  mighty  shadow-like 
a  wing.  The  dark  cypresses  and  silver  fields  of  olives  made  traces 
of  wavering  shade  across  the  bright  paths.  High  up  upon  a  marble 
-ledge,  overlooking  the  breathless,  awful  stillness  of  Bolax  Valley, 
the  air  blew  across  from  the  furthest  mountains  with  a  stronger 
touch  of  sea-breeze  through  its  own  purity.  Its  fresh  message  in 
that  scene  of  brilliant  colour  was  gratefully  received.  At  the 
iurthest  edge  of  the  long  valley  vista,  the  Mediterranean   cut 


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378  November  in  a  Greek  Island. 

bluely  into  the  picture,  with  a  scarcely  perceptible  line  of  horizon 
dividing  sea  from  sky,  except  under  the  far-off  hills  of  Andros, 
which  melted  on  a  bank  of  fluffy  cream  clouds,  rose-painted,  and 
vaguely-shaped.  Between  Andros  and  Tenos  a  solitary  white  sail 
made  a  sunlit  division  upon  the  crystal  blue  of  the  waters.  The 
circling  line  of  mountain-tops  breaking  from  the  sea-edge  on  either 
side  of  the  valley,  and  enclosing  all  within  the  cold  brilliance  of 
their  marble  sides,  and  the  long  roads  of  shadowless,  colourless  light, 
intensified  by  the  remoter  touches  of  cypress-stain  and  silver 
waves  of  olive,  and  the  bare  branches  of  the  fig-trees  making  a 
purple  mist  rising  above  the  more  fragrant  mist  of  the  purple 
thyme,  formed  a  kind  of  oppressive  imprisonment,  and,  as  I  was 
turning  away  in  search  of  a  less  lonely  and  more  shaded  spot,  a 
lark  suddenly  broke  the  breathless  trance  of  silence.  The  effect 
was  magical.  The  song  was  not  sustained  nor  even  piercingly 
sweet,  but  the  notes  rose  and  fluttered  spasmodically  through  the 
air,  and  the  very  sense  of  irritation  each  pause  created  in  the 
listener  lent  the  renewed  song  a  dreamier,  unanalysable  charm. 

When  I  climbed  down  the  other  side  of  the  marble  ledge  in  a 
zigzag  mulepath,  upon  which  only  the  goats  ought  to  feel  them- 
selves at  home,  I  found  myself  in  a  paradise  of  moist  green.  A 
torrent  with  a  thin,  fine  line  of  clear  water  breaking  over  a  heap 
of  marble  and  alabaster  rocks,  covered  thickly  with  maiden-hair, 
and  running  with  its  waterfall  music  of  sound  through  its  glisten- 
ing bed  of  white  stones,  kept  cool  and  silver  by  the  inextricable 
branches  of  myrtle  and  oleander  that  shade  it  from  the  sunlight, 
down  as  far  as  Lazaro,  where  it  is  content  to  turn  itself  into  a 
public  fountain.  Its  banks  are  made  fresh  and  pleasant  by  every 
kind  of  green  plant.  Unfortunately  I  have  no  means  of  discover- 
ing the  English  for  all  the  wild  flowers  that  grow  about  in  pro- 
fusion. The  loveliest  are  the  cyclamen,  which  I  think  may  be 
appropriately  called  the  eyes  of  the  mountains  here,  as  the  thyme 
may  be  called  their  scent.  One  meets  them  everywhere  in  varying 
shades,  from  the  faintest  mauve  to  a  violet  bordering  centrewards 
on  rose.  Then  comes  a  less  delicate  star-shaped  flower,  also  pale 
violet  with  points  of  red  flame  starting  like  thin  tongues  from  its 
heart,  which  is  called  the  saffron ;  and  the  purple  wild  lilies  rising 
out  of  a  beautiful  cluster  of  rich  polished  leaves.  There  is  another 
starry  wild  flower,  purple  too,  but  so  frail  that  it  fades  almost  the 
moment  it  is  plucked.  The  daisies,  larger  and  taller  than  ours 
are  more  plentiful  now  than  when  I  first  came.  In  some  places 
they  wave  bends  of  earth  white,  just  as  the  cyclamens  gather 


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JSovember  in  a  Greek  Island.  379 

their  purple  eyes  closely  together  and  shut  out  all  colour  but  their 
own  from  one  particular  spot.  Down  in  this  torrent  the  air  and 
colouring  were  so  exquisite,  and  the  fulness  of  silence,  made  more 
eloquent  by  the  goldfinches  and  thrushes  and  linnets  chattering 
and  singing  to  their  heart's  content,  that  one  unconsciously  felt  all 
the  instincts  and  pleasures  of  unrestrained  childhood  clamouringly 
rise.  No  higher  pleasure  seemed  realisable  than  that  of  wading 
through  the  clear  silver  water  with  its  inviting  prattle  over  the 
stones  and  its  running  movement,  or  the  chase  of  the  white  butter- 
flies that  seemed  like  bright  flying  radiances  through  the  air, 
pausing  now  on  an  oleander  or  myrtle  branch,  and  starting  again 
suddenly,  like  joyous  fluttering  sensibilities  quickened  with  life  to 
the  wing  tips. 

It  was  Sunday,  the  hunting-day  of  the  island.  Upon  the 
dangerous-looking  paths  breaking  over  a  shoulder  of  mountain  or 
veering  down  into  a  sheer  precipice,  the  island  huntsmen  looked 
picturesque  stains,  with  their  leathern  bags  and  guns  and  various 
costumes,  shouting  their  Greek  patois  across  to  recognised  friends. 
After  an  hour  of  idle  musing  among  the  beauties  of  sight  and 
sound  down  in  this  torrent-bed,  I  climbed  up  with  many  pauses  to 
Lutra,  wisely  skirting  the  villainous  village-— of  all  villages  on 
the  face  of  this  earth,  I  honestly  believe  the  most  ineffably  dirty-^- 
and  made  my  difficult  way  round  an  enormous  cactus  hedge, 
bordering  another  torrent,  rich  in  foliage  and  colour,  but  as  yet 
barren  of  water,  up  to  a  kind  of  narrow  table-land.  This  is  a 
favourite  seat  of  mine  for  reading  or  idle  make-believe  at  reading. 
The  windmill  behind  with  its  sprawling  arms,  like  a  mighty  spiders' 
web,  turns  itself  into  an  acceptable  sunshade,  and  above,  if  you 
are  not  too  lazy  to  look  round,  you  may  see  the  bishop's  village, 
my  pen  shrinks  humbly  from  these  massive  Greek  names — a 
luminous  spot  of  white  under  the  frowning  shadows  of  the  desolate 
purple  Castro,  once  the  Venetian  fortress  by  which  Tenos  was 
betrayed  to  the  Turks.  On  the  Sunday  I  write  of,  the  Castro— 
an  appalling  purple-grey  rock — was  partly  hidden  by  the  opaline 
white  fog  that  lay  upon  it  like  a  thick  bridal  veil  wedding  it  to  the 
sky,  and  through  this  haze  the  points  of  the  rock  were  unevenly 
visible.  But  one  could  see  it  rapidly  melting  under  the  bars  of 
gold  that  the  sun  shot  down  upon  it,  marvelling,  doubtless,  that  his 
royal  message  of  light  and  clearness  should  so  long  have  been 
resisted  by  this  melancholy  fortress,  held  in  its  gloomy  memories  of 
far-off  days  of  pride  and  glory,  and  Venetian  splendour  and 
importance. 

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380  November  in  a  Greek  Island. 

From  this  point  Myoone,  Delos,  Syra,  and  Naxos,  are  distinctly 
marked  upon  the  horizon,  Myoone  and  Syra  standing  out  in  special 
illumination  upon  the  picture ;  the  latter  with  its  white  eccentric 
town,  peeping  out  from  under  its  cloud-shadowed  hills,  and  the 
former  a  lovely  blending  of.  purple  and  blue.  Syphona  rises 
further,  a  misty  margin  of  grey  land,  and  it  is  hard  to  say  if 
Delos  looks  more  like  sky  or  sea.  But  there  where  the  sea  is 
touched  to  silver  radiance,  reaching  across  a  stretch  of  vague  blue 
until,  turning  again  into  sapphire,  it  washes  the  immortal  shores  of 
Ariadne's  Island,  Naxos  rises  in  fuller,  clearer,  desolately  golden 
curves  of  hillside,  for  no  wavering  shadows  seem  to  break  upon 
this  spot  of  blue  and  gold.  The  air  is  thick  with  the  poignant 
scent  of  the  thyme,  lavender,  and  rosemary,  and  other  aromatic 
plants  whose  names  are  unknown  to  me.  Farm-sounds  break  above 
the  silence,  and  the  cries  of  the  noisy  rooks,  pursuing  through  the 
air  bands  of  frightened  pigeons,  whose  pure  wings  gather  an 
intense  illumination  from  the  light. 

The  last  bloom  of  the  oleander  upon  a  tree  near,  reminded 
one  of  Moore's  melody,  and  seems  to  remain  long  after  the  depar- 
ture of  its  odorous  companions,  to  give  us  a  faint  idea  of  what  the 
torrents  and  gardens  must  be  in  their  summer  decoration  of 
oleander-roses.  The  borders  of  solemn  cypresses  are  as  still  as 
death,  and  down  through  the  valleys  the  countless  villages  are 
half-hidden  in  the  olive  groves,  and  the  golden  and  yellow  points 
of  the  orange  and  lemon  trees,  and  the  clearer  green  of  the  fig- 
trees,  the  poplars,  and  myrtles,  which,  upon  the  hills,  grow  as  free 
and  wild  as  brushwood.  Mixed  with  the  purple  mist  of  thyme 
and  rich  spaces  of  myrtle  and  a  delicate  thorny  furze,  are  the 
stains  of  dark  grey,  pale  green,  silver  and  golden  mosses,  growing 
thickly  upon  the  marbles  and  rocks,  and  the  lines  of  stones  cutting 
their  way  across  the  land- like  furrows,  and  over  the  hills  the  stray 
shadows  of  the  clouds  travel  in  lines  of  wavering  shade,  veiling 
momently  the  wild  desolate  contours,  and  making  wide  paths  of 
blue  and  rich  purple  upon  brown  earth  and  grey  rock.  Through- 
out this  month  the  weather  has  continued  exquisite,  but  for  that 
week  of  rain,  already  alluded  to,  when  it  certainly  was  not  colder 
than  I  have  known  it  in  August  at  home.  I  have  been  able  to 
write  and  read  out  in  a  summer-house  every  morning  without 
extra  clothing— which  work  I  vary  by  pausing  to  gather  an  occa- 
sional orange — and  even  on  the  terrace  at  night  the  cautious 
muffler  is  rather  a  nuisance  than  a  necessity.  Within  doors  the 
long  windows  are  kept  open  all  day ;  and  sometimes  when  riding 


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November  in  a  Greek  Island.  '381 

'the  glare  of.  this  November  sun  is  too  strong  to  European  eyes, 
and  the  discarded  coloured  glasses  are  called  out  of  retirement. 
'In  the  gardens  flower  stars  and  brilliant  colours  continue  to 
flourish  in  a  way  thfet  in  Ireland  we  would  describe  as  royal.  On 
the  first  of  December  I  gathered  a  monster  bouquet,  composed  of 
tea-roses,  double  and  single  geraniums  of  every  colour,  carnations, 
•lavender,  rosemary,  marguerites,  heliotrope,  verbena,  mignonette, 
.snapdragon,  bachelor's  buttons,  maiden-hair,  and  the  three  first 
violets  that  have  appeared.  Just  as  I  came  in  from  the  garden 
with  my  fragrant  burden,  I  received  a  letter  from  home  describing 
the  sharp  winter  that  had  set  in.  With  my  flowers,  and  the  sen- 
sation  of  a  very  decidedly  sun-scorched  face,  I  found  it  difficult 
to  conceive  the  picture  and  feelings  of  winter. 

Having  spent  the  first  Sunday  of  November  wandering  about 
on  foot,  I  resolved  to  spend  the  last  wandering  still  further  upon 
muleback.  A  young  Greek  lady,  who  is  staying  here  for  her 
health,  and  who  has  been  leading  the  life  of  a  melancholy  recluse 
for  the  past  few  months,  consented,  under  the  influence  of  my 
'overbearing  will,  to  join  me  in  an  expedition  to  Pirgos — a  ride  of 
four  hours  and  a  half  from  Lutra.  We  started  at  seven.  There 
was  something  weird  in  the  fact  that  the  sky  was  at  that  hour  a 
pale  illumination  of  starlight,  gradually  vanishing  into  wistful 
brilliance,  and  the  clear  crescent  stood  sharply  out  above  the 
moonlit  velvety  clouds.  Then  the  night  lights  fainted  away,  and 
the  moonlit  clouds  were  touched  with  rose,  which,  mounting  higher 
and  higher,  grew  into  carmine  in  the  east.  Then  up  sprang  the 
sun  and  smote  down  upon  the  banks  of  rose  and  purple,  and 
beating  upon  the  fields  and  mossy  edges  melted  their  dewy  shine. 
Once  his  despotic  sway  was  assured  all  the  cold  of  the  sweet 
morning  air  vanished  magically,  and  by  the  time  the  Castro  and 
the  grey  points  of  Bolax  were  out  of  sight,  and  the  wide,  long 
landscape  of  unfamiliar  shapes  and  colours  stretching  over  hill 
and  valley  to  the  sea-edge,  the  reign  of  heat  began.  As  a  pre- 
caution we  had  put  on  some  extra  clothing,  and  wildly  did  We 
learn  to  regret  that  sin  upon  the  other  side  of  wisdom.  Wonder- 
ful it  was  to  hear  the  birds  sing,  especially  one  exigent  self -inflated 
fellow,  with  whose  notes  I  have  become  familiar — not  his  name— 
for  I  always  notice  that  he  only  condescends  to  sing  when  the 
rest  are  silent;  to  watch  the  prevailing  tints  of  grey  upon 
the  hillsides,  and  distinguish  each :  the  olive  is  the  tallest  and 
most  silvery  mist ;  a  grey  furze,  which  melts  into  the  grey  rocks 
and  is  hardly  distinguishable  but  for  its  delicate  pattern  of  thorn*; 


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382  November  in  a  Greek  Island. 

which  are  shaped  like  pointed  stars ;  this  mint  and  a  greyish  weed 
wonderfully  leaved,  with  special  facilities  .for  catching  the  dews 
and  preserving  them,  long  after  its  companions  have  succumbed  to 
the  majestic  will  of  the  sun.  Down  through  the  valleys  the  newly 
sown  grain  made  patches  of  brilliant  lawny  velvet,  sometimes  as 
flat  squares,  sometimes  rising  like  steps  of  carpeted  stairs,  with 
ridges  of  brown  earth  separating  each  step.  The  bare  fig-trees 
intermingle  deep  purple  shadows  among  these  luminous  colours, 
and  the  Mediterranean  was  its  own  special  stirless  blue. 

But  our  undivided  attention  could  not,  unfortunately,  be  given 
over  to  the  contemplation  of  beauty  of  sight  and  sound.  There 
was  the  extreme  inconvenience  of  sensation  to  reflect  upon  perforce. 
Anything  more  primitive  than  the  roads  of  Tenos  could  not  well 
be  imagined  by  the  hardiest  explorer.  I  pretty  freely  expressed 
myself  upon  the  subject  to  the  Greek  gentleman  who  courteously 
undertook  to  serve  us  as  guide,  relieving  my  wrath,  to  his  and  the 
muleteers'  infinite  delight,  with  all  the  Greek  exclamations  I  have 
learned,  copiously  dispersed  through  my  burst  of  unpremeditated 
eloquence.  It  is  almost  worth  while  being  shaken  from  head  to 
foot  on  a  wretched  mule,  who  tranquilly  jerks  you  down  an  awful 
precipice,  for  the  pleasure  of  airing  such  a  classical  exclamation  as 
wavayta  pov,  etc.  My  guide  was  so  delighted  with  my  unflatter- 
ing comments  on  the  backward  condition  of  Tenos  that  he  con- 
templates putting  them  into  an  indignant  letter  and  forwarding 
copies  to  each  of  the  three  Members  of  Parliament  and  four  Mayors 
of  the  island,  to  show  them  what  a  distinguished  foreigner  thinks 
of  them.  I  may  mention  that  it  is  my  private  belief  that  he  is  at 
daggers  drawn  with  those  three  members  and  four  mayors,  if  one 
may  judge  from  his  acrimonious  criticisms.    But  he  was  a  very 

interesting  and  courteous  guide,  whom  Kyria  B and  I  mean 

to  engage  regularly.  He  waited  upon  us  with  cavalier  attention, 
and  provided  us  with  most  excellent  Malmsey  wine,  which  gave 
me  an  insight  into  the  Duke  of  Clarence's  delicate  discrimination 
in  the  matter  of  his  last  choice.  A  pleasanter  and  more  desperately 
fatiguing  day  I  have  never  spent.  It  was  just  midday  when  we 
encamped  under  the  shadow  of  a  line  of  windmills,  heading  the 
village  of  Firgos  below.  We  passed  the  seashore  where  the  land 
breaks  into  innumerable  small  bays,  and  is  made  a  blue  clear  edge, 
pebble  and  shell  swept.  The  Greek  islands  rose  in  confused  folds 
of  land  upon  the  sea,  and  which  was  which  even  our  guide  did 
not  rightly  know.  Ysternia  is  undoubtedly  the  prettiest  and 
largest  village  I  have  yet  seen  in  Tenos.    Here  rival  boats  start 


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November  in  a  Greek  Island.  383 

for  Syra,  Paros,  and  Naxos,  and  a  little  below  are  the  famous 
marble  quarries.  Looking  at  them  carefully  I  grew  to  understand 
why  the  colour  of  the  hills  has  so  much  mauve  and  golden  mixed 
with  the  white.  Where  the  marble  has  been  cut  or  broken  it 
takes  this  peculiar  golden  tint;  where  it  remains  intact  time 
blends  the  white  with  mauve,  and  both  together  produce  the 
wonderful  effects  of  curve  and  shadow  and  luminous  light  that 
makes  those  Grecian  hills  an  everlasting  and  nameless  wonder. 

After  dinner  we  sat  until  near  three,  resting  after  our  long 
ride,  high  upon  the  mountain-side,  indolently  musing,  and 
watching  sky  and  land  and  sea — it  were  difficult  to  admire  one 
more  than  the  other — and  then  our  lovely  solitude  was  disturbed 
by  the  reappearance  of  our  guide  with  a  Greek  priest,  who  had 
brought  from  the  village  some  antiquities  he  wished  to  dispose  of. 
For  a  moderate  sum  I  bought  a  broken  earthen  vase,  pale  brown 
with  painted  black  figures  representing  heaven  knows  what,  and 
remarkably  like  those  ancient  atrocities  of  the  British  Museum, 
and  a  small  stone  bellows-shaped  lamp,  both  supposed  to  be  3,000 
years  old — 3,000,  or  300,  or  30  is  all  the  same  to  me,  fori  fear 
I  am  as  devoid  as  Mark  Twain  of  the  bump  of  reverence.  I 
cannot  say  I  feel  greatly  exhilarated  or  awed  whenever  my  eyes 
fall  on  my  purchases.  At  three  we  started  homewards.  It  was 
astonishing  to  see  how  rapidly  the  river  of  starless  gold  upon  the 
sea  deepened  in  colour ;  and  as  we  passed  the  fields  the  birds  rose 
from  the  hedges  and  fluttered  homewards  through  the  air  filling 
the  silence  afar  and  near  with  their  last  sweet  burst  of  song.  But 
increasing  fatigue  blinded  our  eyes  to  the  wonders  of  the  sky  and 
the  immense  vistas  of  valley,  deepening  into  a  thick  palpable  dark- 
ness, as  the  stars  started  out  like  blue  points  upon  the  dark  polished 
sky,  and  the  far-away  hills  melted  into  the  shadowy  horizon. 


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FILIOAIA. 
Coronadone  di  Spine. 

CHI  dal  tronco  vi  avelse  e  chi  v'imprease 
Nel  divin  Oapo,  e  di  voi,  spine,  ordio 
L'aspro  Diadema  P    Al  duro  uffizio  e  rio 
La  eorte  voi,  me  la  mia  colpa  elesse. 

Con  quette  man,  con  qneete  mane  istease  %\ 

L'empio  serto  io  composi,  e  questo  mio 
Petto  f  u'l  troneo  ond'io  vi  svelsi  e  end'  io 
Porai  alimento  alia  malnata  mease. 

Coei  con  crescer  de*  gran  falli  miei 
Cresceste  infette  di  crudel  veleno, 
Finche*  ministre  al  mio  furor  vi  fei. 

Ma  se  d'insania  e  di  barbarie  pieno 
Passar  le  tempie  al  Redentor  potei, 
Qual  fia  di  voi  che  a  me  non  pass!  il  seno  ? 

Translation. 
The  Crowning  with  Thorns. 

Who  plucked  jou  from  your  stem,  je  thorns,  to  twine 
The  ruthless  Diadem  P     Whose  fingers  pressed 
Your  downward  points  upon  His  forehead  blessed  ? 
'Twas  chance  that  chose  you,  but  the  guilt  was  mine. 

These  hands,  these  hands,  around  that  brow  divine 
Did  plait  your  cruel  crown ;  the  root  my  breast, 
Wherein  your  evil  harvest  reared  its  crest ; 
And  thence  I  took  you  for  the  fell  design. 

For  there,  as  grew  my  deadly  sins,  did  ye 
Grow  too,  envenomed  for  your  barbarous  part, 
The  ministers  of  my  iniquity. 

But  if  with  savage  and  perfidious  art 

I  pierced  my  Saviour's  temples,  shall  not  He 

With  every  thorn  among  you  pierce  my  heart  ? 

O. 


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MKS.  PIATT'S  POEMS  * 

r[S  woman-poet's  poems  oome  to  us  with  a  New  World 
freshness  and  fragrance,  superadded  to  the  sweetness  and 
tenderness,  which  are  among  the  things  that  never  grow  old. 
Some  of  the  poems,  in  their  largeness  and  freedom,  their  boldness 
in  seizing,  and  crying  aloud  the  vague  doubts  and  marvellings, 
which  Lave  wearied  and  pained  us  all  at  times ;  not  the  less  that 
we  have  scarcely  dared  to  look  them  in  the  face — read  like  a  reve- 
lation— a  revelation  of  one's  own  heart,  of  a  woman's  heart.  The 
book  is  essentially  a  woman's  book,  though,  in  its  breadth  of  treat* 
ment,  it  has  often  a  masculine  quality  of  strength — it  is  the  book 
of  a  woman  who  is  also  a  wife,  and  the  mother  of  children,  and  in 
the  noble  attributes  of  a  developed  womanliness,  the  poetry  of  it 
must  rank  almost  with  the  highest.  The  age  is  notable  in  that 
women  have  advanced  so  greatly  in  Art ;  it  has  produced,  at  least,. 
two  women  who  stand  with  men  in  the  very  forefront,  George  Eliot 
and  Elizabeth  Barret  Browning,  and,  in  other  departments  of  Art 
than  literature,  prose  or  poetry,  the  advance  has  been  marked  and 
distinct.  Three  women's  names  suggest  themselves  to  the  present 
writer,  as  those  of  distinct  and  individual  singers  in  our  own  day 
— Christina  Rossetti,  Jean  Ingelow,  and  Alice  Meynell,  whose 
one  exquisite  volume  ''  Preludes,"  is  an  embodiment  of  the  purest 
poetry;  and  to  those  three  names,  Sarah  Piatt's  may  now  be 
added  as  a  fourth,  for  her  marked  originality  and  freshness  are 
wonderful,  in  an  age  more  than  a  score  of  hundred  years  after 
Solomon  bewailed  the  staleness  of  all  things  under  the  sun.  The 
tenderness,  the  purity  of  the  book,  is  beyond  all  praise ;  and  the 
curious  current  and  undertone  of  pathos  running  through  the 
highest  strain — a  sadness  entirely  natural,  and  not  at  all  a  literary 
quality,  as  so  much  present-day  sadness  seems  to  be,  gives  the 
work  an  ennobling  gravity.  From  this  true,  sweet  poet,  one 
wishes  to  quote  largely,  feeling  that  the  poems  speak  best  for  their 
own  excellence ;  but  where  all  is  perfect,  there  is  a  difficulty  in 

*"A  Voyage  to  the  Fortunate  Islea,  and  Other  Poems."  London: 
Kegan  Pan],  Trench  and  Co.,  1885.  "An  Irish  Garland."  David  Douglas* 
Edinburgh,  1884,  « In  Primrose  Time."  London ;  Kegan  Paul,  Trench  and 
Co.,  1886.  "  The  Children  Out-of-Doors,"  by  Two  in  One  House.  Edinburgh  : 
David  Douglas,  1884. 


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386  Mrs.  Piatt  a  Poems. 

selection.  The  child-poems  of  this  mother  of  children,  this  mother 
of  dead  babes,  are  a  marked  feature ;  but  taking  the  poems  as 
they  come,  our  first  quotation  shall  be  this,  full  of  infinite 
pathos : — 

Madonna  eyes  looked  at  him  from  the  air, 
But  never  from  the  picture.    Still  he  painted. 

The  hovering  halo  would  not  touch  the  hair ; 
The  patient  saint  still  stared  at  him — unsainted. 

Day  after  day  flashed  by  in  flower  and  frost ; 

Night  after  night,  how  fast  the  stars  kept  burning 
His  little  light  away,  till  all  was  lost ! — 

All,  save  the  bitter  sweetness  of  his  yearning. 

Slowly  he  saw  his  work;  it  was  not  good. 

Ah,  hopeless  hope  1    Ah,  fiercely-dying  passion  1 
"  I  am  no  painter/*  moaned  he  as  he  stood, 

With  folded  hands  in  death's  unconscious  fashion. 

"  Stand  as  you  are,  an  instant !  *  some  one  cried, 

He  felt  the  voice  of  a  diviner  brother. 
The  man  who  was  a  painter,  at  his  side, 

Showed  how  his  folded  hands  could  serve  another. 

Ah,  strange,  sad  world,  where  Albert  Diirer  takes 
The  hands  that  Albert  Diirer's  friend  has  folded, 

And 'with  their  helpless  help  such  triumph  makes! — 
Strange,  since  both  men  of  kindred  dust  were  moulded. 

The  poem  which  gives  the  first  book  its  name,  is  wise  and  beauti- 
ful, and  "  A  Wall  Between/'  contains  some  of  the  best  things  the 
poet  has  given  us ;  but  in  the  latter  poem  it  is  difficult  to  catch 
the  meaning,  and  one  feels  a  certain  need  of  keeping  the  mind 
chained  to  the  text,  in  order  to  trace  the  story,  which  detracts 
from  the  great  qualities  of  the  poem.  It  has  some  wonderful 
passages.     Witness  this : — 

(A  crucifix  to  kiss  ?) 
Another  world  may  light  your  lifted  eyes, 

But,  by  my  heart  that  breaks,  I  am  of  this. 
Are  you  quite  sure  those  palms  of  Paradise 

Do  shelter  for  me  one  sweet  head  P 

Or,  are  the  dead — the  dead  P 

Pray,  would  you  give  one  rood 
Of  your  dark,  certain  soil,  where  olives  grow, 

For  all  those  shining  heights  on  heights,  where  brood 
The  wings  you  babble  of  that  shame  the  snow  P 

*  *  *  * 


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Mrs.  Piatt's  Poems.  387 

Dead,  and  for  many  a  year  P — 
Can  a  dead  baby  laugh  and  babble  so  P 

Do  you  not  see  me  kiss  and  kiss  him  here. 
And  hold  death  from  me  still  to  kiss  him  P — No  P 

Yet  I  did  dream  white  blossoms  grew— 

Bo  cruel  dreams  come  true  ? 

.  .  .  As  the  tree  falls,  one  says. 
So  shall  it  lie.    It  falls,  remembering 

The  sun  and  stillness  of  its  leaf -green  days, 
The  moons  it  held,  the  nested  bird's  warm  wing! 

The  promise  of  the  buds  it  wore, 

The  fruit — it  never  bore. 

Perhaps  the  short  poems  are  the  most  perfect,  and  the  style  at 
its  best  is  limpidly  clear.  How  lovely,  with  its  solemn  lesson,  is 
this,  the  Memento  Mori  of  a  king : — 

Into  the  regal  face  the  risen  sun 

Laughed,  and  he  whispered  in  dismay : 
u  How  is  it,  Victor  of  the  World,  that  none 

Remind  you  what  you  are,  to-day  P 

"  Your  sword  shall  teach  the  slave,  who  could  forget 

That  men  are  mortal,  what  they  are ! 
How  dared  he  sleep, — he  has  not  warned  me  yet, — 

After  that  last,  loth,  lagging  star  P  " 

.  •  .  Across  his  palace  threshold,  wan  and  still, 

His  morning  herald,  wet  with  dew, 
Stared  at  him  with  fixed  eyes  that  well  might  chill 

The  vanity  of  earth  clean  through. 

"  Good-morrow,  King,"  he  heard  the  dead  lips  say, 

"  See  what  is  man.    When  did  I  tell 
My  bitter  message  to  my  lord,  I  pray, 

So  reverently  and  so  well  P  " 

Any  notice  of  this  book  would  be  incomplete,  however  abun- 
dant its  citations,  if  it  failed  to  quote  from  the  poems  concerning 
children,  which,  perhaps,  more  than  any  other  feature,  set  the 
book  apart  from  any  other  book  we  have  ever  read.  Its  insight  into 
child-life,  the  naivetJ  of  a  child's  thoughts,  here  so  accurately 
rendered,  will  make  the  book  especially  lovable  to  grown  lovers 
of  children,  though  here,  perhaps,  it  stops  short :  it  will  hardly 
reach  the  children  themselves,  as  Hans  Andersen,  the  prophet  of 
children,  does ;  but  rather  like  Mr.  It.  L.  Stevenson's  "  Child's 
Garden  of  Verses,"  it   will  make  the  grown  reader  sigh  and 


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388  Mrs.  Ptatfs  Poems. 

wonder  at  the  vivid  reflection  from  his  own  childhood.  We  will 
make  two  excerpts  here,  feeling  still  the  difficulty  of  selection  where 
all  is  so  good  :— 

At  Hans  Andbbsen's  Funeral. 

Why,  all  the  children  in  all  the  world  had  listened  around  his  knee, 

But  the  wonder-tales  must  end  5 
So,  all  the  children  in  all  the  world  came  into  the  church  to  see 

The  still  face  of  their  friend. 

"  But  were  any  fairies  there  ?"    Why,  yes,  little  questioner  of  mine, 

For  the  fairies  loved  him  too ; 
And  all  the  fairies  in  all  the  world,  as  far  as  the  moon  can  shine, 

Sobbed,  "  Oh !  what  shall  we  do  P  " 

Well,  the  children  who  played  with  the  North's  white  swans,  away  in  the  North's 
white  snows, 

Made  wreaths  of  fir  for  his  head; 
And  the  South's  dark  children  scattered  the  scents  of  the  South's  red  rose 
Down  at  the  feet  of  the  dead. 

Yes,  all  the  children  in  all  the  world  were  there  with  their  tears  that  day ; 

But  the  boy  who  loved  him  best, 
Alone  in  a  damp  and  lonesome  place  (not  far  from  his  grave)  he  lay — 

And 'sadder  than  all  the  rest 

'*  Mother,"  he  moaned,  "  never  mind  the  king — why,  what  if  the  king  is  there? 

Never  mind  your  faded  shawl : 
The  king  may  never  see  it ;  for  the  king  will  hardly  care 

To  look  at  your  clothes  at  all." 

So,  close  to  his  coffin  she  crouched,  in  the  breath  of  the  burial  flowers, 

And  begged  for  a  bud  or  a  leaf : — 
41  If  I  cannot  have  one,  0  sirs,  to  take  to  that  poor  little  room  of  ours, 

My  bo£  will  die  of  his  grief !  " 

My  child,  if  the  king  was  there,  and  I  think  he  was  (but  then  I  forget), 

Why,  that  was  a  little  thing. 
Did  a  dead  man  ever  lift  his  head  from  its  place  in  the  coffin  yet, 

Do  you  think,  to  bow  to  the  king  P 

"  Bat  could  he  not  see  him  up  in  Heaven  ?  "  I  never  was  there,  you  know ; 

But  Heaven  is  too  far,  I  fear, 
For  the  ermine,  and  purple,  and  gold,  that  make  up  the  king,  to  show 

So  bravely  as  they  do  here. 

But  he  saw  the  tears  of  'the  peasant-child,  by  the  beautiful  light  he  took 
From  the  earth  in  his  close-shut  eyes ; 

For  tears  are  the  sweetest  of  all  the  things  we  shall  see,  when  we  come  to  look 
From  the  windows  of  the  skies. 


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Mrs.  Piatfs  Poem.  889 

Little  Christian's  Tboublb. 
His  wet  cheeks  looked  as  they  had  worn, 
Each,  with  its  rose,  a  thorn, 

Set  there  (my  boy,  you  understand  P) 
By  his  own  brother's  hand  : 

"Look  at  my  cheek    What  shall  I  do?— 
You  know  I  have  but  two ! " 

His  mother  answered,  as  she  read 
What  my  Lord  Christ  had  said; 

(While  tears  began  to  drop  like  rain :) 
u  Go,  turn  the  two  again." 

And  now,  with  little  farther  quotation,  we  must  leave  this 
lovely  and  lovable  book,  in  which  is  contained  the  cream's  cream, 
the  best  perfection  of  the  author's  work.  Let  all  who  love  poetry, 
and  happily  they  are  many,  read  the  book  for  themselves,  and 
know  the  delight  we  have  felt  in  its  reading.  For  the  delicate 
grace  of  the  book,  the  yearning  sadness  which  fills  one  with  a 
pain  better  than  pleasure,  for  this  laying  open  of  a  beautiful 
heart,  we  are  deeply  thankful.  Our  quotations  have  been  too 
long  to  allow  of  our  quoting  from  the  other  precious  little  volumes, 
"In  Primrose  Time,"  "An  Irish  Garland,"  and  the  share  in 
"  The  Children  Out-of-Doors,"  which  Mrs.  Piatt  has  given  us ; 
but  it  is  the  same  heart  beats  through  all,  the  same  singer's  voice, 
singing  with  a  sound  of  tears,  singing  with  a  flash  of  laughter  in 
tear- wet  eyes.  We  have  tried  to  say  little  and  quote  much, 
because  we  felt  how  poorly  we  could  say  all  the  book  makes  us 
feel — one  could  say  it,  perhaps,  better  in  verse  than  in  prose,  where 
enthusiasm  finds  hardly  a  fitting  vehicle  of  expression.  Only  we 
thank  the  writer  for  the  gift  she  has  given  us  and  the  world — a 
gift  as  perfect  and  spontaneous  as  the  song  of  a  blackbird,  as 
passionate  and  innocent  as  the  heart  of  a  rose.  And  here  is  our 
last  quotation  from  the  exquisite  double  quatrains,  which  close  the 

second  portion  of  the  book : — 

• 

Bbokek  Promise. 
After  strange  stars,  inscrutable,  on  high ; 

After  strange  seas  beneath  his  floating  feet; 
After  the  glare  in  many  a  brooding  eye,— 

I  wonder  if  the  cry  of  "  Land  "  was  sweet  P 

Or  did  the  Atlantic  gold,  the  Atlantic  palm, 

The  Atlantic  bird  and  flower,  seem  poor,  atgbesV 
To  the  grey  Admiral  under  sun  and  calm, 
After  the  passionate  doubt  and  faith  of  quest  P 
You.  xrr.  No.  157.  29 


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390  The  Queen's  Favour^. 

.  Th*  Happier  Gift, 
'  Divinjest  Words  that  eter  singed  eaid r 
Would  hardly  tad  your  mouth  a  eweeter.  rid  } 
Her  aureole,  eTen  here  whoee  book  you  hold, 
Could  give  your  head  no  goldener  charm  of  gold. 
Ah  me !  you  have  the  only  gift  on  earth 
That  to  a  woman  can  he  surely  worth 
Breathing  the  breath  of  life  for.    Keep  your  place — 
Even  she  had  given  her  fame  to  have  your  face. 
In  Doubt. 
Through  dream  and  dusk  a  frightened  whisper  said : 
"  Lay  down  the  world :  the  one  you  love  is  dead." 
In  the  near  waters,  without  any  cry 
I  sank,  therefore — glad;  oh  so  glad,  to  die  1 

Far  on  the  shore,  with  sun,  and  dove,  and  dew, 

And  apple-flowers,  I  suddenly  saw  you. 
Then — was  it  kind  or  cruel  that  the  sea 
Held  back  my  hands,  and  kissed  and  clung  to  me? 

Fob  Another's  Sake. 
Sweet,  sweet  P    My  child,  some  sweeter  word  than  sweet, 

Some  lovelier  word  than  love,  I  want  for  you. 
Who  says  the  world  is  bitter,  while  your  feet 

Are  left  among  the  lilies  and  the  dew  P 

...  Ah  P    So  some  other  has,  this  night,  to  fold 
Such  hands  as  his,  and  drop  some  precious  head 

From  off  her  breast  as  full  of  baby-gold  ? 
I,  for  her  grief,  will  not  be  comforted.  K.  T. 


THE  QUEEN'S  FAVOURITE. 

EVERYONE  agrees  that  the  French  Revolution  is  an  almost 
exhausted  theme.  Everything  to  be  said  on  either  side  has 
been  said  by  historians  or  romancers,  censors  or  apologists,  yet 
now  and  then,  in  the  private  history  of  noble  families,  incidents 
are  related  as  sensational  and  romantic  as  any  that  have  become 
public,  and  hair-breadth  "  'scapes  "  as  wild,  as  apparently  impro- 
bable as  ever  novelist  depicted.  As  for  me,  I  fancied  there  was 
not  a  tale,  good,  bad  or  indifferent,  relating  to  poor,  frivolous, 
generous,  impulsive  Marie  Antoinette,  which  had  not  been  fami- 
liar from  my  earliest  school-days ;  but,  in  turning  over  the  pages 
of  a  quaint  old  magazine,  "  L'Ange  Gardien,"  I  found  something 
new  to  me,  and  I  hope  to  my  readers,  a  little  story  that  gives  its 
name  to  this  paper. 

The  ill-fated  Queen  loved  all  animals,  but  her  special  favourite 
was  a  pretty  spaniel,  named  Thisbl,  which  displayed  unbounded 
affection  in  return  for  her  care.  When  the  royal  family  were 
imprisoned  in  the  Temple,  in  the  August  of  1792,  the  queen  was 

Digitized  by  VjOvJVJ  Lv, 


The  Queen's  Favourite.  391 

sometimes  cheered  amid  her  sorrows  by  the  gambols  of  her  pet. 
Heavier  trials  than  imprisonment  were  in  stbtfe  for  her,  in  whose 
defence  Burke  fondly  hoped  a  thousand  swords  would  leap  from 
their  scabbards.  Her  husband  perished  on  the  21st  of  January, 
1793 ;  and  the  following  July,  the  little  Dauphin  was  taken  from 
her  care,  to  be  placed  in  the  hands  of  Simon,  the  brutal  shoemaker. 
On  the  5th  of.  August,  Marie  Antoinette  was  removed  by  night, 
from  the  Temple  to  the  Conciergerie,  where  her  captivity  became 
harder.  Poor  Thisb£  was  left  behind,  but  not  for  long.  The  faith- 
ful animal  tracked  its  beloved  mistress  to  the  door  of  her  gloomy 
prison,  coming  day-by-day  to  crouch  at  the  entrance,  howling 
piteously.  It  somehow  came  to  be  known  whose  property  the  spaniel 
was,  and  a  good-natured  young  milliner,  named  Madame  Arnaud,  who 
lived  opposite,  took  care  that  it  did  not  starve.  To  her  it  crept  for 
shelter  at  night,  but  as  soon  as  her  doors  opened  in  the  morning, 
resumed  its  station,  watching  and  waiting  for  the  Queen  to  come. 
Sympathy  with  Marie  Antoinette's  dog  was  then  very  dan- 
gerous, and  the  young  milliner's  friends  represented  to  her  that 
she  was  seriously  imperilling  herself  and  them,  by  injudicious 
humanity.  At  first,  she  did  not  heed  them ;  but,  when  the  result 
of  the  Queen's  so-called  trial,  a  foregone  conclusion,  was  officially 
announced,  Madame  Arnaud,  yielding  to  the  entreaties  of  her  rela- 
tives, yet  attached  to  poor  faithful  Thisb£,  compromised  by  securing 
the  dog,  and  sending  it  for  safety  to  her  sister,  who  lived  near  the 
Pont  St.  Michel,  to  be  kept  till  the  execution  was  over,  and  the 
little  animal  forgotten  in  the  neighbourhood.  In  this  new  home 
Thisbfe  was  miserable,  barked  and  whined  all  day,  refused  food, 
and  vainly  sought  to  escape,  till  one  morning,  a  door  being  acci- 
dentally open,  it  slipped  out,  and  found  its  way  back  to  the  gate  of 
the  Conciergerie.  The  tumbril  was  just  issuing  with  its  load  of 
prisoners,  on  their  way  to  the  guillotine.  Amongst  them,  a  joy  for 
poor,  unconscious  Thisb£ !  was  the  beloved  form  of  its  mistress. 
If  dogs  see  the  changes  wrought  by  sorrow,  the  little  animal  must 
have  mourned  the  Queen's  snow-white  hair,  and  the  deep-marked 
lines  of  suffering  on  her  brow,  as  it  followed  the  cart,  jolting  rapidly 
over  the  stony  pavement.  Arrived  at  the  fatal  Place  de  la  Con- 
corde, the  spaniel  sniffed  uneasily  around,  but  no  one  noticed, 
so  occupied  were  sam  culottes  and  tricoteuses,  by  the  ghastly  tragedy 
about  to  be  enacted.  The  Queen's  head  fell — there  was  a  moment's 
dead  silence — then  the  loud,  agonising  howl  of  a  dog.  In  an 
instant,  a  soldier's  bayonet  pierced  its  heart.  "  So  perish  all  that 
mourn  an  aristocrat,"  he  cried;  and  mourning,  indeed,  an  aristocrat, 
died,  Thkbi  le  chien  de  la  Heine.  Dmze6$<$^§£ 


MARTINUS  HUGO  HAMILL  THOlLE  LONGO  SUO 
Roics  Stxjdioedm  Causa  Dbgbntl 

TANDEM  optata  mibi  tua  venit  epistola,  Long©, 
Tarda  quidem  venit,  aed  mihi  grata  tamen ; 
Teque  valere  docet  atudiisque  ardere  Minerva 

Sorte  tua  cod  ten  turn  et  meminiase  mei. 
Tu  quoque  pieridum  venerari  numina  prodia : 

Macte  ammo  felix  iogeniumque  cole. 
Sed  nimium  vereu  ne  delectere  canoio 

Neu  meliora  illi  et  seria  posthabeas. 
Namque  et  ai  ingenuos  deceat  fovisse  camoenam 

Et  qui  deapiceret  barbarua  ille  foret, 
Saepe  baec  ignavo  juvenilia  pectora  cantu 

Paulatim  alliciena  in  sua  jura  trahit. 
Ergo  cave,  atque  animo  noctuque  diuque  recurrat 

A  te  auaceptum,  Longe,  miniaterium ; 
Et  aiquando  gravi  te  Muaa  abducere  tentat 

Consilio,  mentsm  sic  revocare  velia; 
Ad  majora,  puer  Longe,  ad  majora  vocaria, 

Altiua  a  te  aliquid  munera  sacra  petunt. 
Optima  quaeque  lege ;  baud  multoa  volviase  libelloa 

Prof  uit,  assidue  aed  atuduiase  bonis ; 
Fruatra  te  torquet  variis  mens  dedita  curia 

Et  rerum  hnud  aequo  pondere  victa  labat; 
At  veterum  imprimis  animo  venerabere  acripta 

Quoa  aut  Italia  aut  ora  Pelaaga  tulit : 
Hob  aequere,  horum  tu  ante  alios  vestigia  serve, 

Una  crede  mibi  hie  itur  ad  astra  via. 
Qui8  furor  eat  rivum  puteumve  exquirere,  puro 

Cum  tibi  aora  dederit  f onto  levare  aitim  ? 
Sed  quid  ago  P    Bene  nota  tibi  exauditaque  saepe 

Dum  refero,  en  celeri  labitur  hora  pede. 
Interea  coeptia  faveat  votisque  benignus 

Adsit  et  aatherea  te  Deua  auctet  ope. 
Bonomium  salvere  meum  Byanumque  jubeto 

Gonoridaaque  ambos.    Optime  Longe,  vale  t  * 


•  The  author  of  this  epistle,  Dr.  Hugh  Hamill,  was  P.P.  of  St  FraiwnV,  Dublin, 
and  Vicar-General  to  Archbishop  Troy.  The  Rev.  C.  P.  Meehan,  to  whom  we  are- 
indebted  for  the  poem,  identifies  one  of  the  names  in  the  penultimate  line  as  the 
Italian  surname  Bonomi.  Does  the  last  line  salute  "  two  students  from  Down  and 
Connor  ?  "  The  letter  was  probably  addressed  to  a  kinsman  of  another  oontempoBar* 
of  Dr.  HamiU's— Father  Paul  Long,  P.P.  of  St  Catherine's,  Meath-street,. 


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NEW  BOOKS. 

Okb  of  the  most  important  additions  made  to  Catholic  literature  for 
these  many  years  is  a  The  History  of  Catholic  Emancipation  and  the 
Progress  of  the  Catholic  Church  in  the  British  Isles,  chiefly  in  England, 
from  1771  to  1820.  By  W.  J.  Amherst,  S.J."  (London,  Kegan  Paul, 
Trench  &  Go.)  Father  Amherst  has  been  described  by  Mr.  S.  N. 
Stokes,  in  Merry  England  for  April — who,  by  the  way,  betrays  a 
curious  hankering  after  the  Veto— as  "one  who  was  well  known, 
thirty  years  ago,  at  the  bar  and  in  Catholic  society,  related  by  birth 
with  some  of  the  actors*  in  the  scenes  which  he  describes,  the  brother 
of  a  bishop,  and  himself  a  Jesuit ;  "  and  the  reviewer  concludes  that 
44  Father  Amherst  combines  quite  unusual  qualifications  for  penetrat- 
ing the  motives  and  interpreting  the  policy  of  the  men  who  sought 
and  obtained  Emancipation."  We  may  add  that  he  is  all  the  better 
qualified  from  the  fact  which  his  book  abundantly  proves,  that,  although 
an  English  Catholic,  not  by  conversion  but  by  birth,  the  representative 
of  one  of  those  families  who  clung  to  the  Old  Faith  in  spite  of  tempta- 
tions more  perilous-,  in  some  respeots,  because  more  seductive  than  the 
similar  trials  of  Irish  Catholics  whom  patriotism  helped  to  confirm 
in  faith — nevertheless,  this  English  historian  shows  himself  able  to 
enter  fully  into  all  the  phases  of  Irish  feeling,  and  to  appreciate 
O'Connell  as  generously  as  he  appreciates  Milner.  When  the  reader 
is  informed  that  each  of  these  two  large  octavos  contains  some  three 
hundred  and  fifty  pages,  he  wonders  that  the  story  has  not  been  con- 
tinued down  to  the  end  in  1829.  Perhaps  a  third  volume  is  in  con- 
templation ;  and  indeed  there  is  ample  material  for  it,  especially 
according  to  the  plan  of  Father  Amherst,  who  by  no  means  confines 
himself  to  a  bare  narration  of  facts,  but  discusses  motives  and  con. 
sequences,  and  practically  inclines  to  that  definition  of  History  which 
makes  it  to  be  Philosophy  teaching  by  example.  His  style  is  admirably 
adapted  to  his  object,  being  calm,  clear,  and  earnest.  This  "  History 
of  Catholic  Emancipation,"  whether  or  not  we  accept  all  the  views 
put  forward,  cannot  but  be  pronounced  to  be  a  work  of  great  interest 
and  value. 

The  Rev.  Thomas  C.  Moore,  D.D.,  seems  to  have  intended  to  call 
his  book  "  Alethaurion,"  which  title  runs  along  the  tops  of  all  the  569 
ample  pages ;  but  perhaps  his  publishers  (Benziger  Brothers,  of  New 
York,  Cincinnati,  and  St.  Louis)  counselled  the  adoption  of  the  simpler 
name — "  Short  Papers  for  the  People."  The  papers  are  certainly  short, 

•  •  In  a  manuscript  list  of  members  of  the  famous  Cisalpine  Club  which  we  found 
lately  among  O'OonneU's  prifate  papers,  the  name  of  Father  Amherst's  father  stands 
second. 


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394  Note*  mi  New  Hooks. 

tot  there  are  one  hundred  and  thirty  of  them,  and  they  are  written  in  a 
popular  style,  with  certain  peculiarities  which  naturally  are  more  likely 
/to  be  relished  by  American  readers.  For  instance,  the  little  chapter 
devoted  to  Cornelius  the  Centurion  begins  with  a  funny  nigger  story, 
whioh  does  not  at  first  seem  particularly  relevant,  and  was  never  meant 
to  be  dignified ;  and  of  the  four  very  effective  pages  devoted  to  the 
Blessed  Virgin,  one  is  taken  up  with  a  certain  Kanturk  blacksmith, 
Ned  O'Hara,  who,  however,  has  something  useful  to  say  on  the  sub- 
ject. There  is  on  the  whole  a  good  deal  of  cleverness  in  this  big  book, 
not  only  in  the  unusual  range  of  its  theological  topics  but  also  in  its 
very  unconventional  way  of  discussing  them.  Both  priests  and  people 
may  turn  over  its  pages  with  pleasure  and  profit. 

"  The  Cardinal  Archbishop  of  Westminster,  with  Notes,  by  John 
Oldcastle "  (Burns  and  Oates)  is  an  exact  counterpart  of  the  work 
lately  issued  as  a  record  of  Cardinal  Newman's  career.  It  contains 
several  well  executed  portraits  of  Cardinal  Manning,  at  various  dates 
in  his  life,  from  1812  to  1886.  The  literary  portion  of  the  thin  royal 
octavo  consists  of  an  account  of  "  The  Event  of  Passion  Sunday,  1851 n 
(when  Archdeacon  Manning  was  received  into  the  Church)  and  then 
an  extremely  interesting  selection  of  the  Cardinal's  letters,  during  the 
last  thirty -five  years.  The  volume  ends  with  "  Landmarks  of  a  Life- 
time," the  first  of  which  shows  that  on  the  fifteenth  of  this  month  of 
July  the  Cardinal  Archbishop  of  Westminster  completes  his  78th 
year. 

We  recommend  very  earnestly  to  our  brethren  in  the  priesthood 
and  to  all  who  take  an  interest,  or  wish  to  take  an  interest,  in  the 
propagation  of  the  faith,  the  work  which  the  great  Friburg  house  of 
the  Herders  has  brought  out,  in  a  French  edition — "Atlas  des 
Missions  Catholiques,"  by  Father  Werner,  S.J.  It  consists  of  twenty 
large  coloured  maps,  with  minute  statistical  papers  illustrating  the 
actual  state  of  the  Catholic  Church  in  all  its  missions  in  every  part  of 
the  world.  This  work  is  the  fruit  of  immense  labour  and  research, 
and  deserves  an  honoured  place  in  every  ecclesiastical  library. 

"  A  Secular  Priest "  has  translated  in  a  readable  and  well  arranged 
volume,  "  The  Virgin  Mother  of  God,"  published  by  Richardson  of 
London  and  Derby,  all  that  St.  Bernard  of  Clairvaux  has  written 
expressly  in  praise  of  the  Blessed  Virgin.  He  has  executed  his  pious 
task  with  great  care  and  taste,  and  the  result  is,  in  itself,  enough  to 
vindicate  the  claim  of  the  first  Abbot  of  Clairvaux  to  the  title  of  the 
Mellifluous  Doctor. 

Mr.  Michael  Brophy,  ex-sergeant  of  the  Royal  Irish  Constabulary, 
has  published,  through  Burns  and  Oates,  a  volume  of  professional 
reminiscences,  which  can  hardly  feel  at  home  in  Granville  Mansions. 
These  sketches  of  the  R.  I.  C.  are  written  racily  enough,  but  we  think 
that  a  knot  of  policemen  off  duty  would  form  the  best  audience  to 
read  them  to. 


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Ntteton  Niw  Books:  39& 

The  Rev.  0.  P;  Meehan  is  about  to  issue  the  third  edition  of  his 
fine  historical  monograph,  u  The  Flight  of  the  Earls."  He  will  in- 
corporate with  the  appendix  many  valuable  materials  discovered  sinoe 
the  first  edition  was  published ;  and  other  improvements  and  additions 
trill  be  made  in  this  definitive  edition  of  Father  Meehan's  beet  work. 
Messrs.  M.  H.  Gill  and  Son  have  made  an  admirable  selection  of 
Edmund  Burke's  writings  "  On  Irish  Affairs,"  the  new  number  of 
their  O'Connell  Press  Popular  Library.  A  hundred  and  fifty  pages  of 
Edmund  Burke  on  Ireland  for  threepence ! 

The  printers  who  set  it  up  in  type  are  the  persons  who,  we  imagine, 
have  profited  most  by  "Lost  in  the  Forest  :  a  Temperanoe  Tale" 
(Richardson  and' Son).  We  have  sought  in  vain  for  a  reason  why  it 
has  been  translated  from  the  French. 

A  Sermon  preached  in  Salford  Cathedral  by  the  Bight  Rev.  Lord 
Petre,  in  aid  of  the  parish  schools,  has  been  published  in  a  very  dainty 
booklet,  under  the  name  of  "  At  Antioch  Again  "  (Burns  and  Oates). 

We  called  attention  before  to  Canon  Croft's  tract  on  the  "  Con- 
tinuity of  the  Church."  It  would  be  very  amusing  if  it  were  not  so 
terribly  sad,  involving  the  eternal  interests  of  millions  of  souls,  to 
study  the  differences  of  doctrine  prevailing  in  the  Church  of  England. 
The  writers  and  readers  of  "  The  Church  Times"  pretend  to  believe 
in  very  much  that  is  blasphemed  by  the  writers  and  readers  of  "  The 
Rock ;  "  and  in  every  Sunday  gathering  of  English  Protestants  what 
a  different  creed  is  held  by  many  a  pair  of  worshippers,  kneeling  or 
sitting  side  by  side.  The  extreme  absurdity  is  reached  when  the 
Queen,  who  is  the  very  Head  of  the  English  Episcopal  Church,  crosses 
the  border  and  becomes  Head  of  the  Scottish  Presbyterian  Church, 
which  denies  episcopacy  and  orders.  Not  only  two  members  of  the 
same  Church,  but  here  one  individual  holds  different  doctrines.  This 
is  one  of  the  difficulties  of  controversy.  Our  adversaries  have  no 
common  ground.  Many  of  them  give  up  readily  the  point  which 
Canon  Croft  proves  convincingly,  in  the  little  treatise  which  the  Catholic 
Truth  Society  is  circulating;  but  there  are  others  who  claim  to  be 
the  successors  of  St.  Anselm  and  of  St.  Thomas  of  Canterbury  and  of 
Venerable  Bede.  Little  they  know  about  the  writings  or  the  lives  of 
these  saints,  or  else  they  could  not,  even  they — illogical  though  they 
be,  and  blinded  by  prejudice,  self-interest  and  lying  traditions — they 
could  not  possibly  pretend  that  Henry  VIII.  and  Oranmer  were  on 
the  side  of  ancient  Catholic  truth,  and  not  Sir  Thomas  More  who  died 
for  what  they  reject. 

A  very  pretty  little  book  is  "  Pomfret  Cakes'9  (London:  Wash- 
bourne).  These  "  Poems  by  John  Wilson  "  show  a  good  deal  of  taste, 
piety,  and  amiable  feeling.  The  Pontefraot  muse  is  not  ambitious, 
but  rather  is  so  simple  betimes  as  to  provoke  a  smile  at  verses  which 
do  not  mean  to  be  comic,  as  Mr.  Wilson  often  means  to  be.    He  calls 


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390  Note*  on  New  Books. 

himself  a  Yorkshire  man,  in  one  place,  but  he  shows  a  very  kindly 
feeling  towards  Ireland,  and  his  muse  is  at  her  best  when  she  tries  to 
speak  with  an  Irish  accent. 

A  small  book  of  130  pages  contains  "  The  Holy  Bule  of  St 
Benedict.  Translated  by  a  Priest  of  Mount  Melleray  "  (London  and 
Derby:  Richardson). 

Three  sixpenny  pamphlets  published  by  Messrs.  M.  H.  Gill  and 
Son  may  be  announced  in  one  paragraph.  The  first  is  a  lecture  on 
Bent,  delivered  in  the  Catholic  Institute  of  Limerick,  by  the  Bev. 
Thomas  A.  Finlay,  S.J.  The  question  is  discussed  from  the  scientific 
point  of  view  of  sound  political  economy.  "The  Alleged  Bull  of 
Pope  Adrian  IV."  is  also  a  lecture,  delivered  by  the  Bev.  P.  A.  Yorke, 
CO.  in  the  Catholic  Commercial  Club  of  Dublin,  and  is  a  very  in- 
teresting contribution  to  a  controversy  which  will  probably  be  carried 
on  into  the  twentieth  century.  Of  much  more  practical  interest  is 
Father  Charles  Davis's  essay  on  the  Deep  Sea  Fisheries  of  Ireland. 
Father  Davis  is  the  well-known  Parish  Priest  of  Baltimore,  through 
whom  the  Baroness  Burdett-Coutts  has  done  so  much  for  the  hardy 
fishermen  of  Cape  Clear. 

"  The  Best  Hundred  Irish  Books  "  has  also  been  reprinted  from 
the  Freeman's  Journal,  as  a  large  sixpenny  brochure.  The  letters  of 
Mr.  Alfred  Webb,  Most  Bev.  Dr.  Healy,  Judge  O'Hagan,  Sir  0.  G. 
Duffy,  Mr.  John  O'Leary,  Dr.  Sullivan,  Dr.  Molloy,  and  Professor 
Stokes  were  particularly  worthy  of  preservation.  "We  prefer  the 
summing  up  of  •'  Historicus "  to  his  original  presentation  of  the 
subject. 

It  is  a  score  of  years  and  more  since  the  grammatical  duel  raged 
between  Queen's  English  and  Dean's  English.  Dean  Alford  is  dead, 
but  his  antagonist,  Mr.  Washington  Moon,  lives  and  flourishes,  and  it 
seems  from  certain  advertisements  appended  to  his  latest  publication, 
'•Ecclesiastical  English"  (London:  Hatchards),  that  he  is  now  pro- 
fessionally  consulting  grammarian  to  all  the  world,  correcting  manu- 
script at  so  many  shillings  per  thousand  words.  His  animadversions 
on  the  use  of  tenses  are,  we  think,  often  well  founded ;  but  many  of 
his  criticisms  seem  foolishly  hypercritical.  Mr.  Moon's  own  English 
is  sometimes  cumbrous  and  a  little  stilted.  "  It  would  have  been  suffix 
oient  with  which  to  put  a  girdle  round  the  world."  "  Our  silence, 
pardonable,  as  emanating  from  respect,"  &c.  Can  a  negative  thing 
like  silence  emanate  ?  As  the  Authorised  Version  and  its  revision  do 
not  concern  us,  we  have  not  thought  it  necessary  to  examine  carefully 
in  detail  Mr.  Moon's  disquisitions,  which  are  certainly  ingenious,  enter- 
taining, and  instructive. 

Mr.  E.  Oomerford  could  not  have  chosen  a  more  appropriate  time 
for  publishing  his  very  spirited  setting  of  the  well-known  song  by 
Thomas  Davis,  "  A  Nation  Once  Again."    In  order  that  it  may  be 


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.Notes  an  New  Booit.  397 

eong  by  feminine  voices  also,  lie  prints  childhood  as  an  alternative 
reading  for  boyhood  in  the  opening  stanza : — 

When  boyhood's  flre>aa  in  my  blood, 

I  read  of  ancient  freemen 
For  Greeqe  and  Borne  who  proudly  stood, 

Three  hundred  men  and  three  men ; 
And  then  I  prayed  I  yet  might  see 

Our  fetters  rent  in  twain, 
And  Ireland,  long  a  province,  be 

A  Nation  once  again. 

The  publishers  of  this  national  song  are  Novello,  Ewer,  and  Oo.  of 
London  and  New  York :  but  "  Dublin"  appears  also  on  the  titlepage, 
followed  by  no  name  except  "  William  Tempest,  Music  Publisher, 
Dundalk."  It  is  well  to  have  Davis's  doctrine  of  nationality  sung,  or 
read,  or  spoken  ;  for  he  was  never  tired  of  inculcating  that  the  high 
and  holy  service  of  Ireland  would  be  profaned  by  passions  vain  or 
ignoble : 

For  Freedom  comes  from  God's  right  hand, 

And  needs  a  godly  train ; 
And  righteous  men  must  make  our  land 

A  Nation  once  again. 

Since  the  Catholic  Children's  Magazine,  formerly  published  by 
Messrs.  James  Duffy  and  Sons,  crossed  the  Irish  Sea,  it  has,  we  must 
confess,  improved  in  many  points.  The  new  name,  Merry  and  Wise,  is 
better  for  practical  purposes;  and  indeed  we  should  wish  the  great 
American  magazine  published  at  New  York,  the  largest  and  in  some 
respects  the  cleverest  and  most  varied  of  all  Catholic  periodicals,  had 
some  more  neutral  name  than  The  Catholic  World  which  almost  brands 
it  as  "  a  pious  book."  The  pictures  in  Merry  and  Wise  are  at  present 
often  good.  We  might,  no  doubt,  desire  fresher  matters  than  Joan 
of  Axe  or  St.  Francis  and  the  Birds ;  but  perhaps  these  will  be  new 
enough  for  many  children.  The  poetry  is  poor ;  and  is  it  right  even 
for  poets  to  be  ungrammatioai  P  In  June  one  poet  has  "stole"  in 
opposition  both  to  Lindley  Murray  and  the  Decalogue,  and  another 
acts  uncivil.  *  With  every  inclination  to  be  easily  pleased  and  with 
full  advertence  to  the  difficulties  of  such  enterprises,  we  cannot  help 
thinking  that  a  higher  literary  standard  ought  to  be  aimed  at  in  these 
days  when  the  most  skilful  pens  and  pencils  on  both  sides  of  the 
Atlantio  are  enlisted  in  the  service  of  Children's  Magazines. 


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NUTSHELL  BIOGBAMS. 
Third  Handful. 

18.  Edmund  Burke,  born  at  Dublin,  January  12, 1 729  (just  a  hundred 
years  before  Catholic  Emancipation);  went  to  England  1750;  came 
back  to  Ireland  as  Private  Secretary  to  Single-Speech  Hamilton,  1761 ; 
Private  Secretary  to  Lord  Rockingham,  1765;  M.P.  for  Wendover, 
1765;  M.P.  for  Bristol,  1774;  M.P.  for  Malton,  1780;  Paymaster- 
General  in  the  second  Rockingham  Ministry,  from  April  to  July,  1782, 
and  in  the  Coalition  Ministry,  from  April  to  December,  1783 ;  retired 
from  Parliament,  1794 ;  lost  his  clever  son,  1794;  died  at  Beaconsfield 
(which  Disraeli  chose  for  his  title),  July  9,  1797,  aged  68  * 

19.  Richard  Challoneb  was  born  on  the  29th  of  September,  1691, 
in  the  Diocese  of  Chichester.  His  father  died  while  the  boy  was  young. 
We  are  not  told  what  became  of  his  mother,  Grace  Willard.  Her  son 
was  converted  by  the  Rev.  John  Gother,  whose  name  is  preserved  by 
his  "Instructions  on  the  Mass,"  and  by  his  "Papist  Misrepresented  and 
Represented."  In  the  summer  of  1704  the  young  convert  was  sent  to 
the  English  seminary  at  Douay,  where  he  remained  as  student,  pro- 
fessor, and  superior  for  twenty-five  years.  No  coming  home  for 
vacation  in  those  days.  He  was  made  Professor  of  Rhetoric  and  then 
of  Philosophy  before  he  was  old  enough  to  be  ordained  priest.  His 
ordination  took  place  on  the  28th  of  March,  1716,  though  he  waited  a 
fortnight  till  Easter  Sunday,  April  12th,  to  celebrate  his  first  Mass. 
His  first  visit  to  his  native  country  was  on  urgent  private  business, 
after  an  uninterrupted  absence  of  fourteen  years.  During  his  stay  at 
Douay  as  Professor  and  Vice-President,  he  wrote  his  famous  little  book 
"  Think  Well  OnV*  He  did  not  come  on  the  English  mission  till 
1730.  In  the  midst  of  his  toils  and  real  dangers  he  found  the  time  and 
the  courage  to  compose  and  publish  a  great  many  learned  and  pious 
works,  which  are  still  doing  good.  In  1738  he  was  made  Coadjutor  to 
Dr.  Benjamin  Petre,  Bishop  in  the  London  District,  whom  he  succeeded 
twenty  years  later.  He  died  on  the  12th  of  January,  1781,  some 
months  after  the  No  Popery  Riots  that  are  linked  with  the  name  of 
Lord  George  Gordon.  During  his  life  of  ninety  years,  many  famous 
and  brilliant  men  lived  and  died  in  England,  thinking  a  great  deal  of 

•  These  are  the  salient  facts  which  Mr.  John  Morlej  (who  now  fills  the  post  in 
Ireland,  in  which  Burke  helped  Single-speech  Hamilton)  thinks  it  worth  while  to 
prefix  to  his  historical  study,  written  twenty  years  ago,  the  first  of  his  works.  He 
remarks  that  it  is  grievous  to  think  that  such  a  man  was  allowed  to  do  no  more  than 
hold  a  fifth-rate  office  for  sometime  less  than  a  twelTemonth.  He  himself  is  a  proof 
that  that  order  of  things  has  passed  away. 


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Nutihell  Biogram*.  399 

themselves  and  thinking  nothing  at  all  of  this  holy  and  learned  man, 
who  quietly  did  bo  much  to  keep  the  faith  alive  in  England  of  the  Four 
Georges. 

20*  Jambs  Mac  Akdle  was  born,  in  1728,  in  Cow-lane,  afterwards 
called  Greek-street,  Dublin.  He  learned  mezzotint  engraving  from  a 
Dublin  engraver,  John  Brooks.  In  1746  he  removed  to  London  where 
he  practised  his  art  with  great  success  till  his  death  in  1765.  His  fame 
and  his  works  have  survived  so  well,  that  they  were  the  subject  of  a 
lecture  by  Mr.  Chaloner  Smith,  M.R.I.A.,  in  1885,  in  the  College  of 
Science,  Stephen's-green. 

21.  The  Bisv.  John  Francis  Shearman  was  born  in  Kilkenny,  in 
1830.  After  his  schooldays  at  Clongowes,  finding  he  had  no  vocation 
for  the  Society  of  Jesus,  to  which  he  was  to  the  last  devotedly  attached, 
he  entered  Maynooth  College,  and  at  the  end  of  his  course  of  theology 
was  ordained  priest,  and  sent  as  curate  to  Dunlavin,  County  Wicklow, 
in  1862.  Much  earlier  he  had  displayed  his  antiquarian  tastes ;  and 
in  this  curaoy  he  published  his  curious  investigations  as  to  the  famous 
battlefield  of  Glen  Manna,  near  Dunlavin,  where  Brian  Boru  in  the 
year  1000  inflicted  a  crushing  defeat  on  the  combined  armies  of  the 
Leinster  men  and  the  Danes  of  Dublin.  At  this  time  also  he  discovered 
a  bi-lingual  Ogham  inscription,  at  Kathleen  Oormac,  in  County  Kildare, 
which  has  since  formed  a  subject  of  discussion  for  such  scholars  as 
Sir  Samuel  Ferguson,  Whitley  Stokes,  Ac.  Father  Shearman  was  soon 
removed  to  Howth  where  he  was  curate  for  twenty  years.  His  vicinity 
to  Dublin  enabled  him  to  devote  his  leisure  to  his  favourite  studies, 
especially  in  the  Library  of  the  Royal  Irish  Academy,  of  which  he 
was  a  member.  In  1879  he  published  "  Loca  Patriciana,"  containing 
very  minute  discussions  concerning  the  dates  in  the  Life  of  the  Apostle 
of  Ireland,  and  showing  also  marvellous  acquaintance  with  the 
ancient  Irish  septs  and  tribes,  and  with  the  genealogies  of  the  Welsh, 
Scotch,  and  Breton  branches  of  the  Celtic  race.  He  was  a  most  pious, 
charitable,  and  amiable  priest.  He  was  appointed  pastor  of  Moone  in 
County  Kildare,  in  November,  1888 ;  but  his  health  soon  failed,  and 
he  died  on  the  6th  of  February,  1885. 

22.  Patrice  Donahoe  was  born  at  Munnery,  Parish  of  Kilmore, 
County  Cavan,  on  St.  Patrick's  Day,  1814  His  father  brought  hisf amily, 
in  1825,  to  Boston,  in  the  United  States,  where  young  Donahoe  became 
a  printer.  After  some  preliminary  ventures  he  established  the  Boston 
Pilot,  which  has  ever  since  done  good  work  for  Catholicity  and  the 
Irish  race.  The  great  fire  in  Boston,  in  November,  1872,  destroyed 
his  property  to  the  extent  of  two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  dollars 
(£41,000),  and  he  was  finally  obliged  to  place  the  residue  in  the  hands 
of  his  creditors.    The  Pilot  belongs  at  present  to  the  Archbishop  of 


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400  Nutshell  Biogramx. 

Boston  and  Mr.  Boyle  O'Reilly.  Mr.  Donahoe  has  for  some  years 
published  only  Donakoe's  Magazine.  Throughout  his  career  he  haft 
shown  great  energy  and  perseveranoe,  and  a  benevolent  and  patriotic 
spirit. 

23.  The  Bet.  Johk  O'Haxlon  was  born  at  Stradbally,  Queen's 
County,  in  the  year  1821,  though  his  grandfather  belonged  to  Armagh. 
Be  was  educated  at  Carlow  College  and  afterwards  in  an  American 
theological  seminary.  He  was  ordained  priest  at  St.  Louis  in  1847,  by 
Dr.  Peter  Richard  Kenrick.  Even  at  that  date  began  his  labours  for 
Irish  literature.  His  Abridgment  of  Irish  History  was  published  at 
Boston  in  1849,  and  in  1850  his  "Irish  Emigrant's  Guide  to  the 
United  States."  In  1853  he  returned  to  Ireland  in  poor  health,  which 
his  native  air  soon  restored  to  vigour.  In  1857  he  published  the 
"Life  of  St.  Laurence  O'Toole,  Archbishop  of  Dublin,"  and  soon 
after  the  "Life  of  St.  Malachy."  Father  O'Hanlon  was  one  of  the 
Curates  of  SS.  Michael  and  John's  from  1859  to  1880,  when  he  was 
made  Parish  Priest  of  St.  Mary's,  Star  of  the  8ea,  Sandymount,  one  of 
the  suburbs  of  Dublin.  During  those  twenty-three  years  he  devoted 
all  the  leisure  he  could  take  from  the  conscientious  discharge  of  his 
priestly  duties  to  literary  labours,  always  connected  with  Catholic 
Ireland.  His  "  Catechism  of  Irish  History"  appeared  in  1869;  and 
later,  his  "Legend  Lays  of  Ireland"  (for  he  is  "Lageniensis"),  a 
"Life  of  St.  David  of  Wales,"  and  some  other  small  works  leading  on 
to  his  magnum  opus,  the  "  lives  of  the  Irish  Saints,"  which  is  still 
alas!  far  from  completion.  May  Father  O'Hanlon  be  spared  long 
enough  to  publish  all  the  materials  which  his  pious  and  persevering 
industry  has  accumulated.  He,  too,  deserves  the  title  bestowed  on  Dr. 
Matthew  Kelly  of  Maynooth — sanctorum  indigitum  client  devotusimw, 
"  a  devoted  client  of  the  native  saints  of  Ireland." 


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MOLLY  THE   TEAMP. 

BY  ROSA  MULHOLLAND, 

AUTHOR  Or  "VAOBAKT  YSMM,"  "  ULLSBVY,"  "XARCZLLl.  0BACB,"  STO,  «TC. 

rlY  late  on  a  dark  wet  night  in  June,  two  persons  entered 
together  a  pawnbroker's  shop  in  Dublin.  One  was  a  low- 
sized  countryman,  with  a  fox-like  faoe,  quick  eyes,  hanging  brows, 
an  unscrupulous  mouth,  a  narrow  forehead,  and  a  large  ear 
-set  so  against  his  bristling  hair,  that  it  suggested  habitual  eaves- 
dropping. He  was  clad  in  two  huge  coats  of  grey  frieze,  and 
wore  a  consciousness  of  responsibility.  He  looked  hard  at  the 
other  customer  entering  with  him,  who  shrank  away  and  cowered 
into  a  corner  by  the  counter.  The  pawnbroker,  coming  from  a 
little  room  behind  the  shop,  directed  his  attention  to  the  country- 
man at  once,  with  only  a  glance  at  the  timid  figure  in  the  back- 
ground. 

The  man  in  frieze  was  a  west-country  drover,  who  had  arrived 
from  the  mountains  only  a  few  hours  before  with  a  drove  of  sheep 
for  market.  He  found  himself  unexpectedly  in  need  of  money 
until  next  day ,  when  his  stock  was  to  be  sold.  He  pulled  off  the 
outer  of  his  two  coats,  and  flung  it  on  the  counter. 

The  pawnbroker  examined  the  coat,  and  a  discussion  arose  as 
to  the  amount  of  money  to  be  advanced  upon  it.  It  was  thrown 
from  one  to  the  other,  shaken  out,  folded  up,  and  finally  tossed 
down  on  the  counter,  while  the  pawnbroker,  himself  in  a  passion, 
almost  dragged  his  bullying  customer  into  his  little  room  behind, 
for  the  purpose  of  showing  him  articles  of  equal  value,  for  which 
he  had  advanced  smaller  sums  than  that  which  he  now  offered  on 
the  coat.  The  other  customer,  a  woman,  was  left  standing  in  the 
«hop  alone. 

She  was  a  woful  specimen  of  womanhood :  a  figure  whose  out- 
lines were  lost  in  miserable  wrappings  of  rags,  a  soiled  trailing 
gown,  and  a  tattered  shawl.  Her  bonnet,  fit  only  for  a  gutter, 
had  two  or  three  grimy  red  roses  flaunting  dismally  under  the 
brim.  Her  skin  was  dark,  either  by  nature  or  from  want  of  care 
•and  cleanliness.  She  was  quite  young,  though  one  could  hardly 
.know  it,  looking  on  her  thin  sallow  face,  deadened  eyes,  and 
•colourless  lips. 

VoL.xiy.2fo.158.    August,  1886.  digitized     Google 


402  MoUy  the  Tramp. 

She  had  in  her  hand  what  can  only  be  described  as  a  rag.  A 
wobegone  look  had  fallen  over  her  face  when  the  two  men  left  her 
unnoticed:  a  look  which  was  crossed  now  and  then  by  one  of* 
impatience,  which  burned  up  and  went  out  of  her  sallow  face  again, 
leaving  the  stolid  weariness  to  come  back.  Of  what  use  was  it  for 
her  to  be  angry,  who  only  existed  in  the  world  upon  sufferance  P 

Presently  lite  pawnbroker  oomes  bustling  back  to  the  shop  to 
fetch  something,  takes  in  her  wretchedness  with  a  keen  eye,  and 
roughly  asks  her  business.  She  offers  him  her  rag,  calling  it  & 
mantle.  It  is  perfectly  worthless,  and  he  is  out  of  temper.  He 
flings  it  back  to  her  with  an  oath,  and  returns  to  his  more 
important  customer. 

The  slight  figure  shakes  as  if  blows  had  come  down  upon  it,  the- 
light  of  eagerness  fades  out  of  the  eyes,  the  hands  mechanically 
fold  up  the  rejected  garment.  This  is  no  new  scene  that  she  is 
passing  through :  no  unexpected  trial  that  has  come  upon  her ;  it 
is  part  of  the  daily  routine  of  her  life.  Harsh  words  are  as 
familiar  to  her  as  the  taste  of  bread  and  milk  to  a  child  who 
has  never  suffered  hunger.  She  accepts  the  award  of  her  patience 
with  the  meekness  of  habitual  dejection,  but  behind  it  there  is. 
something  stirring  which  is  not  habitual;  something  which  make* 
the  cowed  spirit  rise  up  again,  which  awakens  persistence  out  of 
the  passiveness  of  despair.  She  turns  again  from  the  shop  door, 
towards  which  she  had  set  her  face,  and  takes  her  stand  by  the- 
counter  once  more.  She  will  wait  to  have  another  word  with  the 
pawnbroker. 

Now,  the  root  of  this  girl's  purpose  was  holy,  and  yet  her  next 
act  was  the  drop  of  evil  that  overflowed  the  cup  of  her  misery,, 
and  turned  trouble  into  sin* 

She  was  so  weary,  that  the  earth  seemed  to  drag  her  failing 
limbs  towards  it.  Her  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  opposite  wall,  look- 
ing at  a  filmy  picture  present  to  them — a  dying  man,  struggling 
with  his  death,  alone  in  darkness.  She  heard  not  the  shouts  and 
curses  in  the  street  outside,  nor  the  bargaining  of  the  two  men  in 
the  inner  room,  but  a  weak  voice  calling  "drink!  drink!"  heard  only 
the  horrible,  greedy  cry,  "  whisky !  "  gurgling  in  a  dying  throat. 
Her  sunken  eyes  started  forward,  her  hands  wrought  with  one 
another.  She  gazed  all  around  the  shop.  No  one  near  her,  no 
one  TwniidiTig  her ;  and  the  coat  still  lying  on  the  counter. 

For  one  moment  she  was  raised  to  the  dignity  of  resisting 
temptation.  Only  one  moment;  need  was  too  great,  habit  too- 
strong,  misery  too  deep.  The  coat  was  snatched,  and  the  gir| 
vanished.  Digitized  by  Qqqc 


MoUy  the  Tramp.  405 

-  The  two  men  returned  only  about  a  minute  too  late,  and  rushed 
into  the  street  crying  "  Stop  thief ! "  The  cry  was  echoed  and 
tossed  from  lip  to  lip  in  the  dirty  lanes  and  alleys.  Drunken  men 
reeled  out  of  taverns  and  caught  it,  wretched  children  yelled  it 
along  the  gutter.  It  clamoured  in  the  hunted,  creature's  ears  aa 
she  strained  her  weak  limbs  along  the  pavement,  or  huddled  herself 
into  some  corner  to  let  the  pursuers  go  by.  "  It  is  the  last  time, 
the  last  time  I "  she  muttered.  So  it  was,  the  last  sin  of  many  ; 
but  not  to  go  unpunished. 

The  cry  had-  long  ceased,  and  the  chase  had  been  abandoned, 
when  the  dark  figure  crept  in  at  a  miserable  doorway,  and  up  a 
dirty,  crazy  flight  of  stairs.  She  had  no  coat  in  her  hands  now, 
but  some  money,  and  a  small  bottle.  She  looked  from  right  to 
left  with  scared  eyes,  and  then  entered  a  squalid  room  where  the 
dawn  was  stealing  wanly  through  a  broken  skylight  in  the  roof. 
The  walls  were  perfectly  bare ;  there  was  no  sign  of  food,  furni- 
ture, nor  clothing.  The  >  girl  looked  eagerly  towards  a  corner 
where  the  figure  of  a  man  lay  stretched  upon  straw.  She  went 
forward,  listening  and  gazing  intently,  and  dropped  on  her  knees 
beside  the  figure. 

"  Here  it  is,"  she  said,  in  a  voice  of  fright  that  matched  her 
face ;  "  here  is  the  whisky.    I  could  not  get  it  any  sooner." 

There  was  no  answer  by  sound  or  movement. 

"Father!"  she  shrieked,  with  a  wild  sob.  She  lifted  an 
awful-looking  hand  from  the  straw,  and  dropped  it  *gain.  The 
figure  on  the  pallet  was  a  corpse.  The  cries  that  had  rung 
through  the  room  when  she  left  it  were  still  for  ever. 

She  drew  a  covering  over  the  body,  looked  round  the  bare 
walls  of  the  den,  and  sat  down  on  the  floor  with  a  passive  despair 
in  her  white  face.  Her  foot  touched  the  bottle  of  spirits.  She 
snatched  it  up  and  half  emptied  it  at  a  draught,  stretched  herself 
on  the  straw  at  the  feet  of  the  corpse,  and  soon  fell  into  a  state  of 
unconsciousness  that  answered  with  her  for  peace. 

Such  is  the  history  of  Molly's  crime.  It  is  quite  useless  for 
the  purposes  of  this  story  to  go  back  any  further  into  her  past. 
It  is  not  easy  to  get  at  the  true  antecedents  of  such  creatures. 
One  would  have  told  you  that  Molly  Cashel  was  a  charwoman ; 
another,  that  she  was  a  ballad-singer ;  another,  that  she  was  a 
street- vagrant ;  another,  that  she  was  a  thief.  Each  account 
would  have  been  true,  for  she  had  been  all  of  these  things  in  turns. 
She  had  been  dragged  through  every  kind  of  misery  from  her 
jrretched  motherless  childhood  until  now,  her  nineteenth  year. 

Digitized  by  VjUUyiv 


404  MoUy  the  Tramp. 

She  had  been  ill-treated  and  made  a  slave  of  by  a  brutal  step- 
father— the  man  whose  last  desire  she  had  sinned  to  strive  to  satisfy. 
A  worn-out,  battered  creature,  who  had  never  had  any  youth,  who 
had  never  been  taught,  who  had  been  driven  on  all  her  life  by  the. 
instincts  and  neoessities  of  the  present  moment. 

It  was  only  six  o'clock,  but  the  June  sun  was  shining  hotly 
down  into  the  filthy  alleys,  glistening  on  the  mud  made  by  the 
rain  of  the  night  before,  and  burning  on  the  broken  window-panes 
crusted  with  dirt  and  stuffed  with  rags ;  and  the  Rooneys  were  up 
already,  and  fighting  as  usual.  The  Rooneys  were  a  family  of 
wandering  mountebanks,  who  lodged  at  present  in  the  room  under 
that  in  which  Molly  Cashel  and  her  father's  corpse  were  lying. 
This  den  was  a  singular  contrast  to  the  one  above  it — not  that 
there  was  a  whit  more  comfort  to  be  seen  within  it ;  but  whereas 
the  one  was  bare,  and  full  of  the  silence  of  death,  the  other  was 
overflowing  with  all  kinds  of  litter,  and  echoing  with  the  quarrel- 
some shouting  of  noisy  voices.  The  remains  of  a  coarse  breakfast 
lay  about  a  dirty  bench  at  one  side  of  the  room,  and  heaps  of 
frippery  rags  mingled  with  tinsel  gewgaws  were  scattered  about 
in  all  directions  on  the  floor.  The  Booney  mother,  a  stout,  broad- 
faced,  vixenish-looking  woman,  was  engaged  in  pasting  daubs  of 
gold  paper  all  over  a  very  dirty  white  muslin  short  frock — part  of 
the  costume  usually  worn  by  Miss  Matilda  Booney  when  dancing 
the  sailor's  hornpipe.  The  Booney  father,  who,  when  he  was  not 
in  a  passion,  had  a  general  air  of  humorous  rowdiness,  was  adorned 
by  nature  with  a  squint,  and  by  accident  with  a  broken  nose, 
which  last  was  fiery  in  colour.  He  was  now  occupying  himself 
(with  one  arm  in  one  sleeve  of  a  ragged  coat)  by  alternately  knock- 
ing the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe  and  his  knuckles  on  the  heads  of  his  two 
sons,  who  were  unwillingly  practising  somersaults  in  one  corner, 
and  responding  to  the  paternal  correction  by  loud  growls  of 
remonstrance.  Miss  Matilda  Booney,  a  dwarf  of  sixteen  years 
who  looked  about  ten,  was  busied  in  twisting  battered  artificial 
flowers  together,  for  the  adornment  of  her  own  elf-locks  of  rusty 
red  and  the  enhancement  of  the  beauty  of  the  paternal  squint, 
which  she  inherited  in  full  perfection.  As  she  worked,  she  beguiled 
her  task  by  stray  words  of  impudence  flung  at  her  father  and 
mother,  and  frowns  and  shakings  of  her  fist  at  a  squalling  baby 
who  was  lying  kicking  on  his  back,  neglected,  on  the  floor. 

The  Booney  family  was  about  to  divide  itself  and  go  upon  two 
separate  pedestrian  excursions  into  different  parts  of  the  country, 

Digitized  by  VjOOQLC 


MoUythe  Tramp*  405 

to  startle  simple  villagers  and  inhabitants  of  roadside  cottages  with 
the  display  of  its  wonderful  accomplishments.  The  Rooney  sons 
were  going  to  tumble  southwards  in  their  tights  and  spangles ;  the 
Rooney  father,  mother,  daughter,  and  baby,  were  going  to  dance, 
scrape,  and  jingle  their  way  westward  with  pipe,  fiddle,  and 
tambourine. 

The  Rooney  family  was  making  so  much  noise  with  its  prepara- 
tions, that  a  timid  knock  was  repeated  thrice  outside,  and  no  one 
in  the  room  heard  it.  At  last  the  door  was  driven  open,  and  a 
white  face  was  pushed  in. 

"  Molly !  "  cried  the  Rooney  mother,  and  there  was  a  general 
hush — so  scaring,  for  the  moment,  was  the  wild  white  face  at  the 
•door. 

"Arrah,  thin,  it's  you  that  looks  fresh  and  rosy  after  yer 
mornin'  walk ! ''  cried  the  Rooney  father,  with  a  laugh  at  his  own 
wit. 

"  Father's  dead !  "  said  Molly,  her  dark  hopeless  eyes  wander- 
ing away  from  the  people  in  the  room  up  the  blank  walls  in  a 
vacant  search  for  sympathy. 

"  Dead  1 "  came  from  all  in  a  chorus,  and  then  from  one : 

"Rest  his  sowll" 

From  another : 

"  He'll  give  ye  no  more  black  eyes ! " 

And  again: 

"  Ye'll  be  breakup  yer  heart  afther  him  I  " 

"  He's  made  a  lucky  flittin ' !  "  said  Tim  Rooney,  the  father. 
*'  He'd  ha'  been  thrown  out  for  rint  to-morrow.  Have  ye  any 
money  P  " 

"  I  have  money,"  said  Molly,  unclosing  her  hand  and  showing 
silver. 

"Where  did  ye  get  itP"  cried  Mother  Rooney,  eyeing  it 
greedily.  "Ah,  ye  jail-bird!  Te've  been  thievin',  have  yeP 
Yell  be  goin'  abroad  some  o'  these  days,  my  darlin'.  Why 
•don't  ye  take  afther  poor  honest  folks  like  uz,  and  get  yer  livin' 
dacent,  ye  divil  ye  P  " 

"I  want  to  do  it,"  cried  Molly,  imploringly,  "but  they  won't 
let  me.  None  of  them  will  let  me.  The  days  keep  coming,  one 
.afther  another,  and  force  me  into  badness.  Oh,  if  you  would  take 
me  out  of  the  town  with  you,  Mrs.  Rooney,  I'll  give  you  this 
money,  and  I'll  ihramp  the  counthry  like  the  best !  Couldn't  I 
cany  the  baby  for  ye,  Mrs.  Rooney  P  "  cried  Molly,  wringing  her 
lianda* 

Digitized  by  VjOOQLC 


404  Molly  the  Tramp. 

Mother  Rooney  toll  her  to  get  but  of  that  for  a  shit,  and  sent 
her  away  to  hufy  her  father ;  but  before  daylight  next  morning 
the  Rooney  family  had  decided  that  Molly  would  be  an  acquisition 
to  the  tramping  expedition.  The  neglected  baby  that  kicked  on 
the  floor  had  grown  since  the  last  excursion,  and  mother  Rooney 
had  found  difficulty  even  then  in  managing  both  it  and  her  fiddle. 
Molly  could  sing  ballads  and  carry  the  baby.  So,  the  pauper's 
funeral  being  over,  Molly  was  bidden  to  enter  on  her  new  profes- 
sion of  tramp. 

She  locked  up  the  door  and  surrendered  the  key  to  the  land- 
lord* The  girl's  leaden  heart  was  a  little  less  leaden  when  she  had 
done  this.  In  that  room  she  had  starved,  sinned,  mourned,  and 
despaired.  She  fetched  the  neglected  baby  out  of  the  Rooney 
Bedlam  below,  and  sat  with  it  in  a  high  corner  landing  of  the 
rickety  staircase.  It  would  be  hard  to  analyse  the  chaos  of  poor 
Molly's  brain.  Doubtless  there  was  a  heavy  retrospection  going 
on  behind  those  black  eyes  wide  open  in  the  darkness,  listening  to 
a  "  death-watch "  ticking  at  her  ear ;  for  Molly  in  her  wander- 
ings had  got  stray  glimpses  of  religion — just  enough  to  let  her 
know  that  her  life  was  all  wrong,  and  that  there  was  a  better  life 
to  be  attained  somewhere,  but  never  by  her.  There  was  expecta- 
tion, too,  in  those  wide-open  eyes ;  but  it  was  very  vague  and  dulL 
That  a  change,  no  matter  what,  was  at  hand,  was  Molly's  chief 
idea.  She  would  get  away  out  of  the  filthy  streets  and  lanes,  to- 
which  she  was  not  dainty  enough  to  object  because  of  their 
filthiness,  but  because  within  their  boundaries  every  man's  hand 
was  against  her,  To  what  manner  of  region  she  was  going,  she- 
did  not  know  or  care.  She  had  never  been  out  of  the  town  vol 
her  life,  and  the  open  country  was  a  sealed  book  to  her.  Probably 
she  should  get  enough  to  eat,  of  some  kind ;  she  would  not  have- 
to  steal — perhaps  not  even  to  beg,  where  there  would  be  so  many 
more  nimble-tongued  to  do  it.  Hard  usage  and  fatigue  she  was- 
inured  to ;  any  change  must  be  for  the  better.  She  got  a  crust  of 
bread  from  the  Rooneys  that  night,  and  leave  to  stretch  herself 
behind  their  door  till  morning. 

By  dawn  they  were  off  on  the  tramp,  Molly  carrying  the  baby, 
her  pockets  stuffed  with  ragged  ballads ;  Mother  Rooney  with  her 
fiddle ;  Father  Rooney  with  his  pipes  and  some  baggage ;  Matilda 
with  her  tambourine,  and  her  dancing-dress  covered  with  a  shawl, 
the  point  of  which  draggled  in  the  mud  and  dabbled  on  the  young 
lady  s  heels  as  she  went  along.  The  drizzling  rain  kept  on,  and 
for  the  first  two  or  three  days  things  were  wretched.    The  country 


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Molly  the  Jbmpz  WT 

wits  sheeted  in  mist,  and  cottagers  kept  their  doors  shut.  The- 
towns  they  passed  through  were  uninteresting  and  inhospitable. 
A  magnificent  show  on  wheels  and  a  German  band  were  traveiling- 
the  same  route,  arriving  in  every  place  of  note  just  in  time  to 
occupy  all  the  public  attention  and  leave  hardly  a  stray  gape  of 
curiosity  for  the  miserable  Rooneys.  So  they  left  the  route  they 
had  intended  to  follow,  and  struck  out  on  the  bog  and  mountain, 
country. 

Tramp,  tramp,  tramp !  Through  the  drizzling  summer  day  and 
far  into  the  drizzling  summer  night,  four  weary  dreary  figures 
plodding  on,  and  never  the  sign  of  a  dwelling  in  sight  since  the 
last  unfriendly  village  had  been  left  miles  behind.  Hitherto  they- 
had  always  found  a  lodging  in  the  shelter  of  some  town,  but 
to-night  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  creep  into  the  shadow  of 
an  old  ruined  chapel  and  make  their  beds  among  the  stones  and 
grass. 

All  were  soon  fast  asleep ;  but  at  midnight  the  last  of  the  rain 
fell,  the  mists  mustered  in  long  troops,  and  filed  away  over  the- 
hills.  The  moon  rose,  marching  grandly  up  a  sky  such  as  city 
chimneys  never  see ;  mountains  that  had  been  curtained  out  with 
rain-clouds  lifted  their  gloomy  heads  against  the  horizon,  or  bowed 
their  brawny  shoulders  down  to  the  plains  to  catch  the  silver 
benediction  of  the  hour.  Streams  struggling  here  and  there 
through  hollows,  with  their  swollen  burden  of  waters,  flung  up 
glances  of  delight  to  the  sky,  as  they  had  now  light  to  go  on 
their  stumbling  way.  A  plover  in  his  nest  felt  the  silver  touch 
upon  his  wing,  stirred  among  the  rushes,  gave  a  cry  of  welcome, 
and  was  at  rest  again. 

The  cry  awakened  Molly,  who  was  sleeping  with  her  head 
against  the  opening  of  a  broken  arch,  and  her  face  to  the  moon- 
light.  She  had  been  dreaming  of  a  tavern  row,  of  police,  of  a 
jail,  of  hunger,  brawling,  curses,  and  injury.  She  opened  her  eyes 
to  the  white  purity  of  the  moon,  her  ears  to  the  dreamy  echo  of 
the  plover's  note,  and  her  soul  to  its  first  knowledge  of  peace. 
She  laid  the  sleeping  child  out  of  her  arms  upon  a  corner  of  his 
mother's  gown,  covered  him  with  her  own  old  rag  of  a  mantle, 
stole  out  from  the  shadow  of  the  walls,  and  stood  dazzled  and 
bewildered  in  the  mellow  glory  of  the  night.  The  land  on  which 
she  looked  was  as  new  to  her  as  if  she  had  been  led  to  the  spot 
blindfold.  What  strange  place  was  this  where  heaven  bent 
towards  her  like  a  mother,  where  the  very  air  seemed  full  of  kind- 
^ess,  and  the  earth  looked  soothed,  as  if  cruelty  and  wickednesa 

Digitized  by  vjUUV  I  v. 


408  Molly  the  Tramp. 

iiad  been  charmed  away  from  it  for  evermore  P  She  had  seen  the 
moon  many  a  time,  looking  with  a  ghastly  glance  of  disgust  on 
-dismal  scenes  to  which  she,  Molly,  had  belonged.  She  had  never 
been  gazed  at,  all  alone,  by  a  tender  eye  like  this.  A  strain  of 
sublime  enthusiasm  was  wrung  from  her  ignorant  souL  A  wild 
regret  for  being  what  she  was,  sprang  out  of  the  passiveness  of 
her  degradation.  She  put  her  poor  face  between  her  hands  and 
fell  to  weeping. 

She  sat  down  on  a  stone  by  the  roadside,  and  with  her  head 
upon  her  arms  dropped  asleep.  The  sun  was  high  when  the  sound 
of  whooping  and  shouting— drover's  cries — roused  her.  A  troop 
of  kyloes  were  moving  along  the  road  towards  her,  a  man  mounted 
on  a  horse  bringing  up  the  rear.  Molly's  instinct  to  hide  from 
every  face  as  an  enemy's,  rose  up  within  her,  and  carried  her  back 
trembling  to  the  ruin.  But  she  peeped  out  from  the  shelter  of 
the  old  window,  and  saw  a  pleasant  picture  framed  there ;  a  long 
winding  sunny  road,  sunny  mountains,  the  wild  little  troop  of 
rugged  cattle  tossing  their  horned  heads  and  plunging  along,  and 
the  figure  on  horseback  behind.  As  the  figure  came  nearer, 
Molly  drew  back  into  her  hiding-place,  with  a  start  of  dismay. 
The  man  was  the  owner  of  that  stolen  frieze  coat.  "  Whoop, 
whoop ! "  shouted  the  drover's  rough  voice,  and  "  click,  click  I  n 
went  his  smacking  whip,  but  Molly  heard  nothing  but  "  Thief ! 
thief ! "  The  flock  went  past,  and  Molly,  shaking  with  terror, 
.gathered  the  baby  in  her  arms,  and  buried  her  face  in  its  chubby 
•shoulder.  Had  they  tracked  her  out  to  this  beautiful  land,  to 
drag  her  back  to  the  town  and  fling  her  into  jailP  They  had 
passed  her  by,  but  would  they  not  come  back  and  find  her  P 

Tramp  I  tramp !  again ;  but  to-day  over  a  burning  road,  with 
a  dazzling  sun  above  their  heads.  They  had  a  grand  performance 
before  a  roadside  cottage,  the  pipes  and  fiddle  clamoured  which 
should  be  loudest.  Miss  Matilda  danced  her  hornpipe,  Molly 
sang  her  ballads  with  a  wild  ringing  fear  of  the  drover  in  her 
voice,  but  a  scrupulous  perseverance,  that  told  of  her  determina- 
tion to  earn  her  living  honestly.  She  had  a  fine  true  voice,  with 
a  strain  of  sweetness  and  pathos  in  it  that  startled  people,  coming 
from  so  dingy  a  figure.  The  woman  of  the  cottage  was  touched 
by  it,  more  than  by  the  dancing  and  singing  of  the  Rooneys.  The 
baby  had  sobbed  an  accompaniment  to  Molly's  song,  and  the  baby 
got  some  new  goat's  milk  and  bread.  And  for  the  singer's  sake 
die  rest  of  the  hungry  band  had  a  meal  of  potatoes. 

"  Yer  come  from  the  townP"  said  the  motherly  woman,  who 


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Molly  the  Tramp.  409* 

had  taken  ihe  baby  in  her  arms  whilst  Molly  ate,  "  Ay  I  the- 
town's  a  bad  place.  There's  a  poor  dhrover  body  gone  past  a  bit 
ago,  only's  been  four  days  away,  an'  has  come  home  without  his* 
fine  coat  that  he  counted  to  do  him  the  rest  o'  his  life.  Stole  from 
before  his  eyes  by  a  vagabond  thief  o'  a  girl,  before  he'd  been  an 
hour  in  Dublin." 

The  blood  ran  into  Molly's  face  for  shame,  and  out  of  it  again, 

for  fear. 

"  No,  but  I  didn't  mean  that  all  the  townsfolks  is  bad !  "  said 
the  woman,  kindly. 

By  evening  they  arrived  at  a  wayside  inn,  where  a  number  of' 
men  were  drinking.  A  fair  had  been  held  not  far  off  the  day 
before,  and  some  were  only  now  on  their  way  home  from  it.  They 
were  smoking  and  drinking  in  a  little  earthen-floored  room,  and 
had  just  been  talking  of  the  luckless  drover  and  his  coat,  he 
having  passed  there  about  half  an  hour  before.  It  seemed  he  wa* 
scattering  his  story  behind  him,  over  the  country  as  he  went,  like 
the  crumbs  cast  by  the  boy  in  the  fairy  tale. 

The  Rooneys  saw  their  chance  and  pushed  their  way  up  to  the 
door  of  the  tavern.  Molly's  black  eyes,  full  of  an  agonising 
question,  peered  in  at  the  door  of  the  close  noisy  room,  and  scanned 
the  faces  present.    The  one  she  dreaded  was  not  there. 

The  tramps  were  welcome  here  with  their  music  and  dancing. 
Father  and  mother  Rooney  were  king  and  queen  of  the  hour,  and 
were  treated  to  steaming  glasses  of  punch.  Matilda's  hornpipe 
was  applauded  to  the  echo.  When  it  came  to  Mollys  turn,  she 
made  two  or  three  pitiful  attempts  to  sing,  and  failed  wretchedly* 
She  was  over-tired.  None  of  them  had  such  a  wearisome  burthen 
to  carry  as  she  had  had,  the  heavy  baby  clinging  for  ever  round 
her  neck.  The  fear,  too,  was  in  her  throat  yet,  and  she  could  not 
sing. 

Father  Rooney  came  over  to  the  corner  where  she  sat,  and 
threatened  her  with  his  fist  in  her  face.  She  broke  down,  turned 
her  face  to  the  wall*  and  wept.  A  young  man  sitting  on  a  table 
at  some  distance  had  been  watching  her  attentively,  and  took  note- 
of  this  scene.  He  was  a  strong-built,  frieze-clad,  well-to-do- 
looking  young  farmer  with  a  brave  brown  face,  and  very  kindly 
and  sweet-tempered  blue  eyes.  He  was  not  drinking  like  the  rest,, 
nor  making  a  noise.  What  he  saw  in  Molly  to  fix  his  attention, 
people  might  have  wondered  if  any  one  there  had  been  temperate 
enough  for  observation.  But  wonders  are  not  rare.  That  he  saw 
sh,e  had  sorrow  in  her  heart  may  not  be  thought  a  sufficient 


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-410  MoOy  the  Tramp. 

reason.  Perhaps  he  divined  hear  youth  through  thg  ageing  dis- 
guises that  hung  about  her.  Perhaps  he  had  a  mother  who  prayed 
for  him  at  home,  or  a  sister  whom  he  petted,  and  it  irked  him  to 
see  a  girl  with  traces  of  beauty  and  feeling  in  her  unwashed  face, 
subject  to  the  threats  of  one  like  Tim  Rooney,  forced  to  take  a 
prominent  place  in  a  gathering  like  this,  and  turning  with  her 
grief  to  the  wall  in  her  voidness  of  expectation  of  sympathy  or 
succour.  He  saw  at  all  events  that  she  was  choking  with  thirst, 
and  that  her  lips  were  baked.  He  fetched  and  offered  her  a  glass 
of  lemonade. 

"Toss  it  off,  my  girl!"  said  he,  "it'll  keep  the  skin  from 
crackin'  on  them  dhry  lips  o'  yours.  Ye'll  give  us  a  snatch  o'  a 
song  by-and-by." 

Molly  seized  and  drank,  wondered,  rejoiced,  looked  at  his 
frieze  coat  and  shuddered ;  looked  at  his  kind,  strong  face,  and 
worshipped. 

"  I  can  sing  now.  Is  there  any  song  you  would  like  to  have  P" 
•said  Molly,  tingling  with  her  gratitude. 

"  Give  us  the  *  Colleen  dhas  crotheen  a  mo  '  (Pretty  girl  milking 
her  cow),"  said  John  Haverty. 

Molly  lifted  her  voice  and  sang  as  she  had  never  sang  before. 
The  young  farmer  looked  at  her  kindling  eyes,  and  felt  a  curious 
•desire  to  know  what  she  would  look  like,  were  her  face  washed, 
and  were  she  dressed  in  clean  garments  like  a  fresh  country  lass, 
accustomed  to  keep  company  with  the  larks  in  the  morning. 

The  song  .being  over,  Tim  Rooney  came  up  and  struck  the 

songstress  on  the  mouth.    He  had  become  brutalised  by  drink, 

.and  cursed  her  for  whining  an  old  drimendru  instead  of  one  of 

the  racy  new-fashioned  ballads  he  had  furnished  her  with.     His 

stray  blows  fell  on  the  child. 

"Not  the  child!  oh,  not  the  child!"  cried  Molly,  with  the 
blood  dropping  from  her  lips ;  for  by  dint  of  moaning  and  crying 
to  the  little  thing,  and  being  worried  by  it,  she  had  grown  to 
love  it  strangely.  She  wrapped  it  in  her  arms  and  went  out  of 
the  cabin  with  it,  just  in  time  to  escape  from  the  hubbub  that  was 
raised,  when  John  Haverty  stretched  Tim  Rooney  on  the  floor. 

She  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  a  well  at  some  distance  from  the 
house,  and  washed  the  blood  from  her  mouth,  and  soothed  the 
baby's  cries.  It  was  so  wonderfully  new  to  Molly  to  have  a  pro- 
tector, that  it  wakened  in  her  a  happy  amazement  which  dulled 
the  sense  of  physical  pain.  She  bathed  her  wound  mechanically, 
but  she  did  not  feel  it. 


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Molly  4he  Tramp.  411 

Presently  Haverty  came  out  to  look  for  her;  the  only  one  who 
missed  or  thought  of  her. 

"  My  poor  girl ! "  said  he,  "  yer  badly  hurt.  But  I  settled 
yon  ruffian  in  a  way  that'll  make  him  think  twice,  before  he  lifts 
his  hand  to  strike  a  woman  again.  Here,  hould  this  to  yer  mouth, 
asthore,  it'll  keep  the  blood  away,"  and  he  gave  her  a  fine  snow- 
white  nappikeen  (head-kerchief),  which  he  had  bought  at  the  fair 
as  a  present  for  his  mother. 

"  Now  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  my  girl,"  said  he,  "  you  must  lave 
the  bad  company  yer  in.  Yer  not  o'  their  sort,  it's  plain  to  see, 
an'  you  ought  to  get  quit  o'  them." 

"  Not  of  their  sort."  Molly  exalted  above  anybody  !  Above 
those  whose  honesty  she  had  emulated  !  Oh,  if  the  drover  were 
to  appear  now  and  denounce  her  to  ijiia  friend !  She  looked  fear- 
fully over  her  shoulder,  but  there  was  no  cause  for  fear.  Peace 
and  security  w§re  all  around  her. 

"  I'd  be  glad  to  do  anything  you  bid  me,"  said  Molly,  out  of 
her  heart,  "  for  no  man  ever  spoke  so  kind  to  me  before.  But  I 
wouldn't  know  what  to  do,  nor  where  to  go,  an'  besides,  I'm  sure 
they'd  kill  the  baby  among  them  if  I  left  it  with  them.  It'll  not 
be  betther  o'  them  blows  this  good  bit.  Whisht!  whisht!  my 
darlin' !  " 

"  Yer  heart's  in  the  right  place,"  said  Haverty,  admiringly. 
**  Ye  ought  to  look  to  yersel',  though.  Ye  could  do  rightly. 
The  counthry's  a  good  place  to  make  a  shift  in,  not  like  the  town. 
Ota  ye  sew  P  " 

"No." 

"Can  ye  read P" 

"No." 

"  Well,  ye  could  work  in  the  fields  like  many  a  heartsome  lass* 
.an'  people  would  be  fightin'  for  lave  to  give  ye  a  lodgin'  for  a  stave 
o'  one  o'  them  darlin'  songs  of  yours.  See  here !  There'll  be  a 
match-makin',  to-morrow  night,  over  at  Widow  Oonneely's  in  the 
•bog.  Lave  this  clan,  an'  make  a  start  o'  't  for  yersel'  at  wanst 
Til  be  lookin'  out  for  ye,  an*  111  put  in  a  good  word  for  ye,  Til 
tell  ye  the  songs  that'll  stale  their  hearts.    Ye'll  come  P  " 

If  he  had  asked  Molly  to  make  an  effort  to  walk  across  the  sea 
to  America,  she  would  have  promised  to  try.  She  gave  him  her 
word  she  would  be  at  the  Widow  Oonneely's.  He  had  been 
throwing  pebbles  down  the  well,  emphasising  his  words  by  an 
occasional  splash ;  now  he  bade  her  good  night,  and  walked  away 
.across  the  moor,  strdng  and  sturdy  in  the  moonlight,  with  his 


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412  JioUy  the  Tramp, 

blackthorn  stick  in  his  hand.  And  Molly,  with  the  baby,  crept 
away  to  the  barn  where  they  were  to  pass  the  night.  There  wa» 
not  much  sleep  for  Molly,  however.  All  the  time  she  lay  there,, 
she  was  thinking  and  dreaming  of  the  kind  compassion  of  John 
Haverty,  who  at  once  become  the  idol  of  her  hungry  heart,  which 
had  been  so  starved  of  love  all  its  life.  She  thought  if  he  would, 
only  give  her  a  corner  of  his  field  to  work  in,  and  come  and  speak 
to  her  like  that  for  a  minute  or  two  every  day,  she  should  reach  tha 
very  summit  of  earthly  happiness.  By  daylight  she  was  up  again 
walking  about,  having  left  the  child  wrapped  in  the  straw  by  its- 
mother's  side.  She  wandered  about  in  the  crimson  dawn,  receiving 
in  her  own  wild  untutored  way  wonderful  revelations  of  a  new  life, 
drinking  in  with  the  pure  air  exhilarating  draughts  of  refreshed 
vitality  which  brought  rushes  of  health  into  her  languid  veins. 

She  went  down  to  a  lonely  river  among  the  hills  and  bathed. 
She  wrung  out  her  long  matted  hair ;  she  had  not  even  a  comb  to 
comb  it  with.  She  washed  the  blood-stains  from  the  white  kerchief 
Haverty  had  given  her,  and  folded  it  across  her  shoulders.  Then 
she  cried  more  passionately  than  she  had  ever  cried  for  pain  or 
hunger,  because  she  could  not  cast  away  her  dirty  ragged  gown, 
having  no  other.  She  bethought  her  of  the  motherly  woman 
whom  they  had  left  two  miles  behind  them  on  the  road,  who  had 
taken  the  tramps  into  her  tidy  cottage,  and  held  the  baby  while 
Molly  ate  of  her  bounty.  So  curiously  had  trust  in  humanity 
been  roused  in  the  girl,  that  she  set  off  at  once,  running  along  the 
high  road  to  throw  herself  on  the  mercy  of  this  person  almost 
unknown,  believing  that  she  would  help  her  in  her  dilemma.  The 
motherly  woman  was  feeding  her  hens  before  her  door,  when  Molly 
appeared  to  her  coming  along  in  the  sunrise,  with  her  half-dried 
hair  hanging  over  her  shoulders,  her  eyes  lighted  with  an  eager 
hope,  and  her  face  clear  and  bright  with  the  new  flush  of  health, 
and  vigour  that  possessed  her. 

"  I  don't  know  but  I  may  be  a  fool,"  said  the  motherly  woman, 
as  she  sorted  through  the  garments  in  her  household  chest ;  "  but 
I  took  a  likin  to  ye  at  the  first  when  I  seen  ye  so  down  an9 
unheartsome  among  them  screeching  jumping  bould-faced  crew*. 
An9 1  like  ye  betther  this  mornin',  for  ye've  got  more  o*  the  clane 
counthry  look  about  ye,  an'  a  purty  face  o'  yer  own  ye  have.  God 
be  with  you,  then,  and  take  the  band  o'  this  turkey  red  ;  your 
nappikeen  '11  cover  the  misfit  o'  the  body.  An'  if  ye  don't  turn 
out  honest,  it's  God  11  settle  accounts  with  you,  an'  not  me." 
The  "  turkey  red  "  was  an  ample  calico  gown  of  that  warm. 


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Moify  th*  Trnnp.  418 

hue,  and  when  Molly  was  arrayed  m  it)  and  the  white  kerchief  on 
her  shoulders,  the  motherly  woman  was  bo  delisted  with  her 
appearance  that  the  insisted  on  dressing  her  hair  to  make  her 
complete. 

"I  can  plat  beautifully,"  said  she,  "  an9  Til  plat  it  up  to  the 
crown  of  yer  head,  the  way  I  used  to  do  my  own  little  girl's, 
before  the  Lord  took  her  from  me,  Heaven  be  her  bed  t  But  let 
that  stan'  till  we  get  the  cup  o'  tea.  My  good  man's  from  home, 
an*  there's  nobody  here  but  our  two  sels." 

Thus  treated,  Molly's  heart  overflowed  with  delight.  While 
breakfast  was  preparing,  she  sought  for  a  smooth  pool  outside,  and 
surveyed  the  alteration  in  herself,  coming  back  on  tiptoe.  The 
words,  "  an*  a  purty  face  o'  yer  own  ye  have ! "  were  racing 
through  her  head ;  but  the  idea  they  conveyed  was  too  sudden  and 
wildly  original  to  be  accepted  at  once  as  the  truth*  And  yet, 
when  the  rest  of  the  world  was  changing  so  fast,  why  should  not 
she  change  too  P  When  her  head  was  covered  with  shining  braids 
she  was  still  more  a  wonder  to  herself.  Where  had  this  beauty 
come  from  P  Could  mere  soap  and  water,  coloured  calico,  and  the 
motherly  woman's  nimble  fingers,  work  such  a  miracle  P 

She  stayed  all  day  at  the  tidy  cottage,  being  afraid  to  go  back 
to  the  Rooneys.  After  sundown  she  set  out,  asking  her  way  to 
the  Widow  Conneely's.  It  was  a  long  walk,  and  she  arrived  with 
her  cheeks  in  a  glow.  John  Haverty  was  smoking  his  pipe  as  she 
came  up,  and  he  did  not  know  her. 

u  I've  come,"  said  she. 

u  Why,"  said  he,  *'  you're  never  the  singin'  girl  that  was  with 
the  thramps  last  night  P  " 

"  I  am,"  said  Molly,  enchanted,  but  alarmed  at  his  not  know- 
ing  her.     "  You  promised  to  tell  me  what  to  sing." 

He  beamed  on  her  with  his  blue  eyes,  taking  in  her  new  appear- 
ance slowly,  by  a  long  look. 

"  111  tell  ye,"  said  he,  putting  his  pipe  in  his  pocket. 

He  took  her  in  to  the  Widow  Conneely.  He  placed  her  in  a 
seat  apart,  a  little  brown  stool,  set  up  in  a  deep  window-seat,  with 
a  strip  of  dark-green  curtain  by  her  shoulder,  and  the  remains  of 
the  sunset  barring  the  little  window-pane  with  gold  beyond  her. 
It  was  by  accident,  of  course,  that  these  things  arranged  them- 
selves so  as  to  make  of  her  a  pretty  picture,  for  the  unconscious 
pleasing  of  uncultivated  eyes.  But  there  she  sat,  entitled  to 
respect  by  the  deference  that  Haverty  paid  her. 

The  people  had  not  gathered  in  for  the  dance ;  only  a  few  old 
Vol.  xiv.  No.  158.  C"V\n 

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414  Molly  the  Tramp. 

men  and  women  were  there ;  the  piper  had  not  yet  come.  Haverty 
sat  with  one  leg  across  the  end  of  a  table,  talking  to  Molly,  getting 
her  to  sing  over  verses  of  songs  for  him,  and  deciding  which  she 
was  to  sing  for  the  company.  Molly's  eyes  and  cheeks  grew 
brighter  and  brighter,  and  her  voice  richer  and  sweeter ;  as  the 
dusk  deepened,  the  golden  bars  paled  away  behind  the  pane,  and 
the  red  light  from  the  turf  fire  drove  the  shadows  into  the  corners 
of  the  cabin,  and  fell  full  across  John  Haverty's  eyes,  which  were 
watering  as  only  an  Irishman's  eyes  can  water  at  music. 

"  Yer  made  o'  the  right  thrue  stuff,"  said  he,  "  or  yer  singin' 
tells  lies  on  ye.  A  man  might  be  happy  that  had  you  chirpin' 
like  a  cricket  by  his  fireside,  avourneen !  Look  at  me,  asthoreen, 
an'  thry  could  you  like  me.  It's  not  long  since  we  saw  each  other 
first,  but  I'm  not  a  bad  fellow  if  you  can  get  the  soft  side  o'  me, 
an'  I  never  seen  a  girl  that  could  take  the  heart  out  o'  my  body 
before." 

Enter  the  piper,  followed  by  a  troop  of  noisy  young  men  and 
women. 

If  Molly's  answer  had  been  forthcoming  it  would  have  been 
lost  in  the  storm  of  greetings  that  followed.  As  it  was,  she  sat 
silent  and  red-cheeked,  and  IJaverty  was  dragged  away  by  a  band 
of  companions.  Now  the  piper  began  to  play,  and  the  dancing 
commenced,  while  a  small  table  was  placed  to  one  side  of  the  fire, 
with  some  pipes,  tobacco,  and  whisky ; — for  what  purpose  did  not 
appear.  When  Molly  looked  up,  Haverty  was  dancing  gaily  with 
a  pretty  girl  in  a  light  print  dress  and  blue  ribbon,  with  smooth 
fair  hair,  and  saucy  eyes,  and  a  coquettish  air  about  her.  People 
watched  the  pair  with  interest  and  admiration.  Both  were  young, 
good-looking,  and  capital  dancers.  They  seemed  made  for  each 
other  and,  for  the  jig  they  were  footing.  The  girl  seemed  fully 
aware  of  the  admiration  she  excited,  and  coquetted  openly  with 
her  partner. 

"  Then  they're  the  handsome  pair !  "  cried,  one  near  Molly. 

"  Ay,  throth  !  "  said  another ;  "  it's  a  wondher  the  ould  men 
isn't  come  to  make  up  the  match." 

"  Ould  blood  is  slow ;  but  it  '11  not  take  them  long'in  the  doin* 
when  they  do  get  at  it.  Both  o'  them's  rich  enough  to  make  the 
young  people  happy." 

"  What  is  it?  "  said  Molly,  touching  her  neighbour's  elbow. 

"  Oh !  it's  John  Haverty  and  Katty  Nee  that's  to  have  their 
match  made  to-night.    You  don't  know,  bein'  a  sthranger.  That's 


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Molly  the  Tramp.  415 

4hem  dancin'  to  others.    They'll  be  married  at  wanst,  I  believe,  aa 
*oon  as  the  bargain's  made." 

Molly  stared  at  the  dancers,  and  then  at  the  speaker,  and  took 
it  all  in.  This  was  his  matchmaking — that  was  what  he  had  called 
it — only  he  had  not  said  it  was  his  own.  It  had  all  been  arranged 
long  ago,  and  he  had  been  laughing  at  the  poor  tramp.  Molly's 
head  fell  back  behind  her  little  strip  of  curtain. 

"  I  do  think  that  sthrange  girl's  sick  in  the  corner,  there," 
said  some  one  by-and-by. 

"  No,"  said  Molly,  wiping  the  cold  drops  from  her  face  with 
the  corner  of  her  nappikeen;  "but  it's  very  warm.  Will  you 
give  me  a  dhrink  P  "  Habit  is  second  nature ;  and  Molly's  habit 
of  patience  was  strong. 

Two  men  came  in  just  then,  who  were  received  with  marks  of 
great  respect.  One  was  a  white-haired  old  man,  the  uncle  of 
John  Haverty,  the  richest  farmer  in  the  country ;  the  other  was 
the  drover  who  had  lost  his  coat  in  Dublin,  and  the  father  of  the 
pretty  bride  in  prospect,  Katty  Nee.  Ah,  Molly !  "  the  fox  may 
run,  but  he's  caught  at  last." 

The  men  sat  down  at  the  table  which  had  been  prepared  for 
them,  and  smoked  their  pipes,  and  laid  their  heads  together.  A 
lively  discussion  soon  began  between  them,  and  the  pipes  were 
often  taken  out  of  their  mouths,  and  the  tables  was  often  thumped ; 
neighbours  looked  on  with  admiration,  and  listened  in  awe.  By 
this  time,  the  piper,  who  had  been  sipping  out  of  a  glass  by  his 
side,  began  to  doze  over  his  pipes,  which  grew  inarticulate  in  their 
utterance,  then  silent.  The  dancers  were  still,  and  there  was  an 
outcry  for  music :  a  general  demand  for  Molly,  the  singing-girl, 
to  lilt  up  a  jig  from  the  corner.  So  Molly  sang  many  a  mad 
merry  jig  and  whirling  reel,  only  now  and  again  breaking  down 
with  a  gasp  for  breath,  while  Katty  and  Haverty  danced  wilder 
and  faster,  and  the  lookers-on  laughed  and  applauded,  and  the 
piper  woke  up  and  grumbled,  and  the  people  said  Molly  had  a 
jewel  of  a  voice,  God  bless  her ! 

.  But  at  last  John  Haverty's  uncle  got  up  with  an  oath  and 
dragged  his  nephew  out  of  the  dance  and  over  to  the  table  by  the 
arm.  The  dancing  stopped  in  a  moment.  Molly's  tune  fell  from 
her  lips ;  the  young  men  smiled  to  each  other  and  shrugged  their 
shoulders ;  the  girls  opened  their  eyes  wide,  and  plucked  each 
other's  skirts ;  the  old  women  groaned  and  flung  up  their  eyes  to 
the  cabin  rafters ;  the  old  men  opened  their  ears  and  shifted  their 
feet  on  the  floor,  as  they  were  used  to  do  on  Sundays  when  pre- 

Digitized  by  VjUUV  I  v. 


410  Moth/  the  Tramp. 

paring  to  listen  to  the  sermon.  Every  one  expected  that  some- 
thing important  was  going  to  be  said  regarding  the  business  of  the- 
night. 

"It's  time  ye  stopped  yer  jiggin'  foolery,1'  said  the  old  man, 
angrily,  "an*  took  a  thought  o'  yer  own  business.  HereweVe- 
settled  all — land,  sheep,  house,  an'  everything,  an9  there  he's  stuck 
fast  in  the  black  cattle,  an'  sorra  an  inchll  he  budge  for  me.  Sit 
down  there  an*  make  yer  own  match,  for  divil  a  finger  more  111 
meddle  in't." 

"  I  want  you  to  make  no  match  for  me,"  said  the  young  man, 
gravely,  "  an'  I  tould  ye  that,  last  week,  I  tould  it  to  Darby  Nee, 
too,  but  nothin'  would  do  you  an'  him  but  ye'd  have  a  match- 
makin'  here  to-night.  It's  all  yer  own  affair,  an'  if  ye've  fought 
over  it  ye  can  settle  it  between  ye.  I've  no  hand  in  it.  Katty 
Nee's  a  purty  girl,  an9  a  good  dancer,  an'  many's  the  jig  I  danced 
with  her ;  but  I  never  axed  her  to  be  my  wife,  an'  I  never  will. 
She  doesn't  want  me,  an*  I  dont  want  her.  She  has  a  sweetheart 
here  to-night,  lookin'  as  sour  as  buttermilk  because  his  farm  isn't 
as  big  as  mine,  an'  she'd  rather  have  his  little  finger  than  my  whole 
body  an'  sowl ;  wouldn't  ye,  Katty  ?  An'  for  my  Bhare,"  said 
Haverty,  looking  back  at  the  window,  "  seem'  that  this  was  to  be 
my  match-making  I  thried  a  little  business  for  myseT  an'  I  think 
my  match  is  made ;  at  least  it  only  wants  wan  little  bit  o'  a  word 
to  finish  the  bargain.  Gome  out  here,  avourneen ! "  said  he,, 
stepping  up  to  the  window,  and  drawing  Molly  into  the  light,. 
"  an'  tell  out  f orenent  the  people  if  you  can  take  me  for  a  husband." 

The  people  looked  surprised,  but  not  so  much  so  as  might  be 
expected.  Such  sudden  "matches"  are  more  common  among 
them  than  longer  courtships. 

Molly  felt  that  it  was  like  certain  death  to  cross  that  floor  and 
face  Darby  Nee,  yet,  to  save  her  life,  she  could  not  have  resisted 
that  hand  drawing  her  on. 

"  A  common  thramp  from  Dublin  I "  stuttered  the  bid  uncle, 
furiously. 

"  A  beggar,  instead  of  my  girl  with  her  fortune ! "  shouted 
the  bullying  drover. 

Molly,  pale  and  cowering,  clinging  to  Eaverty's  arm,  lifted  her 
eyes  with  tike  old  fearful  look  that  was  common  to  them  in  Dublin, 
and  the  drover,  fixing  his  fox- like  eyes  on  her,  recognised  her  in 
a  moment 

"Oho!"  he  cried,  "oho!  A  Dublin  thramp,  did  ye  sayP 
Faix,  an'  we  didn't  know  what  fine  company  we  were  in !    I 

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Molly  the  Trtmp.  417 

think  yon  an'  me  has  met  before  thi*  young  woman*  A  thief* 
neighbours/1  he  went  on,  his  voioe  rising  with  his  anger  as  the 
remembrance  of  his  wrong  came  folly  back  upon  him ;  "the  very 
thief  that  stole  the  coat  I  was  tellin'  ye  of,  in  the  pawnbroker's 
shop  in  Dublin.  Then  I  wish  ye  good  luck  o'  the  wife  ye  have 
picked,  Misther  Haverty.  Daoent  girls  isn't  good  enough  for  ye, 
so  ye  have  one  that'll  do  ye  credit  I " 

Molly  never  heard  Haverty's  answer  nor  the  murmurs  of  the 
people,  for  at  the  first  word  of  accusation  she  shot  through  the 
•crowd  and  disappeared  from  the  door. 

When  the  motherly  woman  got  up  next  morning  and  began  to 
bustle  about  her  tidy  cottage,  she  found  her  "  turkey  red  "  hang- 
ing on  a  pin  behind  the  kitchen  door,  and  Molly's  old  ragged 
gown  that  had  hung  in  its  place,  gone.  Trembling  with  agitation, 
ahe  counted  her  half-dozen  tea-spoons,  and  felt  that  her  "  stocking  " 
was  safe  in  its  nook  up  the  chimney.  Then  "  thank  God,"  said 
the  motherly  woman,  "  I  knewed  she  was  dacent,  but  she  might 
ha'  said  good-bye  to  a  body,  an'  not  come  slippin'  in  an'  out  in  the 
night,  like  a  sperrit !  " 

That  was  the  last  that  was  heard  of  Molly.  John  Haverty 
refused  to  believe  what  the  drover  asserted,  and  swore  before  all 
the  people  that  it  was  a  calumny.  The  Rooneys  having  passed  on 
from  the  place,  there  was  no  one  to  bear  witness  against  Molly's 
•character,  and  nothing  to  prove  her  guilty,  but  her  own  sudden 
flight.  Haverty  had  the  river  dragged,  rode  to  the  neighbouring 
villages,  and  inquired  at  the  cottages  on  the  roadsides,  but  not  a 
trace  of  Molly  was  found. 

Two  years  passed,  and  the  facts  of  Molly's  appearance  and 
disappearance  in  the  district  were  told  as  a  romantic  story,  and 
Haverty  was  pointed  to  as  the  young  man  who  had  been  so 
*"  quarely  crossed  in  love."  Nevertheless,  his  farm  was  thriving, 
and  his  uncle  who  had  long  since  forgiven  him  for  falling  in  love 
with  the  tramp,  who  had  so  considerately  taken  herself  off,  did 
not  despair  of  making  a  capital  match  for  him  yet,  though  Katty 
Nee  was  married. 

Meantime,  the  earth  had  not  swallowed  up  Molly.  She  had 
rushed  to  the  river  first,  but  when  she  stood  on  the  brink  of  the 
water  and  saw  the  sun  rising  above  her  head,  she  felt  that  after 
all  death  was  worse  than  anything  that  had  happened  to  her  yet. 
-She  wandered  at  random,  with  much  fatigue  and  suffering,  through 
-deserted  paths  in  the  hills,  till  she  made  her  way  at  last  to  the 


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418  Molly  the  Tramp. 

dwelling  of  a  herd  who  lived  at  the  other  side  of  the  brow  of  the- 
tallest  mountain  that  looked  on  the  valley  where  so  many  strange- 
haps  had  befallen  her  in  so  little  a  space  of  time.  Here  she  arrived 
opportunely  and  was  hired  as  a  servant,  and  here  she  remained. 

Molly  worked  well  and  learned  many  things ;  her  employer* 
were  friendly  and  found  her  work.  They  were  perched  up  so  high 
on  the  mountain  that  they  seemed  to  live  beside  the  sun ;  the  air 
they  breathed  was  so  sweet,  and  the  active  life  they  led  so  health- 
ful, that  Molly  grew  strong  in  body  and  cheerful  in  mind,  and 
could  romp,  with  her  master's  children,  and  mock  the  larks  with  her 
singing,  for  the  children's  delight.  By  winter-time  she  had  spun 
herself  a  peasant's  dress  of  crimson  flannel,  with  knitted  blue 
worsted  stockings  for  her  feet. 

The  third  year  had  begun,  when  on  an  autumn  day  John  Haverty 
walked  the  hills  with  his  blackthorn  in  hand,  seeking  this  herd 
who  had  charge  of  many  cattle,  wanting  to  put  a  flock  under  his 
care.  Coming  round  a  heathery  rock  very  high  in  the  blue  air,  he 
met  Molly  face  to  face,  tripping  along  the  narrow  path  with  a 
bundle  of  purple  heath  on  her  shoulder.  Molly  herself,  but  bright, 
sunburnt,  and  buxom,  hardly  a  trace  of  the  old  Molly  left  to* 
know  her  by. 

"  Molly  ! "  cried  Haverty. 

"Yes!"  said  Molly. 

He  caught  her  hand  in  delight. 

"  No,"  said  Molly,  drawing  it  away,  and  with  a  proud  lip- 
"Ye  musn't  shake  hands  with  a  thief." 

"  Look  here !  "  said  John.  "  Do  ye  think  I  ever  believed  yon 
lyin'  ruffian  P" 

"  It  was  no  lie,  though,"  said  Molly,  hanging  her  head.  "  It 
was  thrue.'' 

"  Whisht !  avourneen,"  said  Haverty.  "  An*  what  if  ye  did  P* 
Is  it  for  the  stalin'  o'  a  rag  o'  a  coat  you'd  make  such  a  murther, 
an*  you  hungry,  or — or  something  111  be  bound  P"  he  added, 
hesitatingly,  with  a  pathetic  look  of  appeal  to  her  for  a  justification 
of  herself. 

"I  was  starved !"  sobbed  Molly,  "an*  my  father  was  dyin'- 
an'.callin'  for  what  I  hadn't  to  give  him.  I  never  was  taught  any 
betther,  but  I've  saved  up  the  price  o'  the  ooat,  all  my  wages  these- 
years/  an9  you'll  give  it  to  him,  plase,  when  ye  see  him  again. 
An'  when  you  talk  to  yer  wife  about  me,  don't  call  me  Molly  the* 
thief,  nor  Molly  the  thramp,  but  just  a  friend  o'  yours  that  ye  were* 
kind  to  when  die  was  in  throuble." 


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A  Maiden.  419 

"  I  have  no  wife/'  said  Haverty,  "  an'  111  never  have  wan  but 
you." 

John  Haverty  had  his  will,  for  they  were  married  the  next 
morning  on  their  way  home  to  the  snug  farm-house  in  a  nest  of 
trees  where  Haverty  lived  with  his  mother.  Darby,  the  drover, 
was  paid  to  hold  his  tongue,  and  no  one  else  dared  believe  a  word 
against  Haverty's  wife;  and  Haverty's  wife  and  the  motherly 
woman  are  bosom  friends. 


A  MAIDEN. 

AN  equal  mind,  a  happy  heart, 
A  heaven-bestowed  content, 
A  nature  never  touched  by  art, 
A  mine  of  love  unspent^; 

A  reason  free  from  passion's  cloud, 
A  faith  that  speaks  in  deeds ; 

Power,  that  ne'er  desires  the  crowd, 
Self,  that  itself  ne'er  heeds ; 

No  vanity,  and  yet  some  pride, 

Ambition  to  excel  j 
Too  frank  hope's  glowing  dreams  to  hide, 

Too  humble  such  to  swell  j 

A  ready  hand,  a  liberal  soul, 
That  counts  not  but  forgives, 

A  glance  that  comprehends  the  whole, 
Will,  that  self-centred  lives : 

A  trust  that  recks  nor  sun  nor  shower, 

An  unprofessing  friend, 
A  love  that  flames  not  for  an  hour, 

But  star-like  to  the  end. 

Such,  dowered  with  the  grace  divine, 

Is  she,  my  soul's  desire  I 
Worship  makes  holier  the  shrine, 

Men  are  as  they  aspire. 

E.E.  T 


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<    4*>    ) 


THE  WORK  OF  THE  POOE  CHURCHES. 
By  thi  Present  Whiter. 

MONSIEUR  Duvergier  d'Hauranne,  describing  a  public  meeting 
in  Ireland  sixty  years  ago,  said  that  Sheil  was  too  fond  of 
quotations — like  most  English  orators,  adds  the  Frenchman.  Some- 
how one  could  not  imagine  a  page  of  French  prose  sprinkled  thickly 
with  inverted  commas.  The  genius  of  the  French  style  requires 
the  constituents  of  a  paragraph  to  be  woven  together  into  a  continuous 
whole. 

Some  newspaper  writer,  giving  an  account  of  a  ladies9  meeting  in 
London,  said  of  one  of  the  speakers,  that  her  speech  was  as  full  of 
quotations  as  a  sermon  by  Archdeacon  Farrar.  This  is  one  of  many 
indications  that  we  have  noticed,  that  quotations  are  becoming  as 
unpopular  in  English  literature  as  in  French.  Indeed,  a  London 
editor  was  once  so  un judicious  as  to  reject  a  paper  by  the  present 
writer,  on  this  very  ground.  "It  was  too  like  Kenelm  Digby," 
he  wrote— that  is,  made  up  expressly  and  designedly  of  quotations 
strung  together  more  or  less  deftly.  The  rejected  article  has  since  been 
put  into  print  twice;  and  the  writer  of  it  still  thinks  that,  if  the 
passages  cited  are  good  in  themselves,  germane  to  the  subject,  and  not 
easily  accessible,  a  paper  made  up  of  them  is  likely  to  be  better  worth 
reading  than  one  that  pretends  to  be  spun  like  a  spider's  web.  To 
vary  the  illustration  and  to  speak  in  the  first  person,  I  prefer  the  slices 
of  cold  meat  served  up  in  their  individual  personality  rather  than  to 
have  them  boiled  down  into  one  homogeneous  stew. 

Therefore,  instead  of  attempting  an  abstract  essay  on  the  excellence 
of  that  work  of  pious  zeal  which  aims  at  supplying  poor  churches  with 
altar  requisites,  let  us  set  forth  in  the  oonorete  one  association  of  this 
kind  as  explained  in  two  reports,  and  in  two  speeches  founded  thereon. 
The  name,  indeed,  prefixed  to  the  present  paper  belongs  rather  to  an 
association  of  Dublin  ladies  who  work  almost  exclusively  for  the 
benefit  of  the  poorer  churches  here  at  home  in  Ireland,  in  districts  less 
favoured  as  regards  the  externals  of  Catholic  worship;  but  the  special 
association  referred  to  in  the  following  reports  an.d  speeches  is  a  con- 
gregation of  "  Children  of  Mary/9  attached  to  a  convent  a  few  miles 
from  Dublin,  and  its  peculiar  sphere  of  usefulness  lies  among  the  still 
more  necessitous  churches  and  chapels  of  foreign  missionary  countries. 
The  attention  of  the  present  writer  was  first  called  to  this  pious 
organization  by  the  following  Report,  which  bears  no  date,  but  which 
the  first  sentence  shows  to  have  been  written  in  1879. 


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The  Work  tf  the  P*r  Owrche*.  421 

41  Two  yean  ages  on  the  22nd  May,  1877,  was  held  ear  first 
Exhibition  of  Altar  Work.  Two  years  seem  a  long  time  when  we 
look  forward;  but  when  we  cart  our  eyes  backwards,  somehow  the 
years  have  a  curious  knack  of  collapsing.  The  winding  paths  np  or 
<lown  the  hill  of  life,  as  it  may  be,  are  so  gently  gradual,  that,  unless 
there  has  been  a  very  abrupt  turn  of  the  road,  we  can  generally  look 
to  where  we  stood,  even  many  more  than  two  years  ago,  and  fancy 
that  we  are  still  almost  on  the  same  level,  and  that  time  has  passed  us 
by  and  made  us  exceptions  to  his  inexorable  '  On !  on ! ' 

"  To  most  of  us,  then,  it  will  seem  only  like  yesterday  since  we 
•assembled  here  for  the  same  purpose,  and  under  the  same  kind 
presidency.  These  two  years  have  been  eventful  ones  in  the  great 
world  without.  The  scene  shifters  of  the  stage  of  public  life  have  had 
-a  busy  time  of  it  How  many  illustrious  personages,  whom  it  seemed 
the  world  could  ill  spare,  have  made  their  exits,  and  still  the  grand 
old  tragedy  goes  on  with  unimpaired  interest !  But  the  present  is  not 
the  time  to  think  of  these  things :  '  Ravenous  k  nos  moutons.'  How 
have  these  years  dealt  with  our  little  Congregation  ?  That  is  the 
question  for  us,  and  to  answer  it  as  clearly  and  briefly  as  possible  is 
the  object  of  this  Keport. 

"  I.  Distinct  as  may  be  the  memory  of  our  last  gathering,  we  must 
venture,  just  on  a  few  points,  to  follow  Monsieur  Jourdain's  advice, 
and  act  as  though  it  were  not  remembered ;  but  we  promise  to  be  very 
•concise.  In  the  Keport  read  on  that  occasion,  reference  was  made  to 
the  establishment  of  the  Association  of  the  Children  of  Mary  in  the 
Convent  School  here  by  the  Bight  Rev.  Dr.  James  Quinn,  Bishop  of 
Brisbane,  in  the  year  1852 :  its  further  development  by  the  admission 
of  extern  members,  and  the  inauguration  of  monthly  meetings  in  1874 ; 
and  the  extension  of  its  sphere  of  usefulness  in  1875,  when  the 
Associates  undertook  the  execution  of  Altar  Work  in  aid  of  Foreign 
Missions.  The  result  of  the  previous  two  years  was  exhibited  in  May, 
1 87  7,  and  many  kind  and  encouraging  words  were  spoken  by  the  clergy- 
men present,  who  heartily  bade  the  Congregation  good  speed  on  their 
way. 

"II.  Now  to  review  the  past  two  years.  The  progress  has  been 
gradual,  but  steady  and  constant.  There  has  been  a  marked  improve- 
ment in  attendance  at  Jthe  periodical  meetings,  in  the  zeal  of  the 
officials  in  recruiting  members  and  furthering  the  interests  of  the 
Association  by  every  means  in  their  power,  and  in  the  industry  displayed 
and  the  amount  of  work  accomplished  by  the  individual  Associates. 
The  work  exhibited  to-day  has  been  entirely  executed  by  the  ladies 
themselves,  who  are  now  experts  in  the  art  of  vestment  making — a 
proficiency  which  we  trust  they  will  turn  to  practical  account  in  the 
different  parishes  in  which  they  reside.  Well  ordered  charity  must 
ever  begin  at  home.    We  do  not  fear  that  among  our  Associates  there 


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422  The  Work  qf  the  Poor  Churches. 

shall  be  any  Mrs.  Jellybyt,  labouring,  say,  for  the  benefit  of  Zulu 
Kaffirs,  while  neglecting  the  duties  that  lie  around  their  doors.  They 
clearly  understand  that  this  work  is  purely  one  of  supererogation,, 
destined  to  fill  up  those  free  moments  which  would  otherwise  be  spent 
in  idleness  or  squandered  in  unprofitable  employment,  and  always  ready 
to  be  laid  aside  at  the  call  of  duty  or  charity.  To  say  that  work  for 
the  Foreign  Missions  ought  not  be  undertaken  because  so  much  desti- 
tution exists  in  our  country  churches  at  home,  is  to  say  that  you  ought 
to  refuse  a  coin  to  a  starring  beggar  because  little  Tommy's  shoes  are 
not  as  good  as  they  were,  and  you  think  it  probable  he'll  want  a  new 
pair  before  the  end  of  the  month.  Thank  God,  and  thanks  to  the 
charity  of  our  faithful  Irish  people,  none  of  our  churches  at  home,, 
however  humble,  are  in  need  of  absolute  necessaries,  while  in  many 
parts  these  poor  missionary  priests  possess  not  even  a  church  itself,, 
much  less  its  accessories.  With  regard  to  domestic  duties,  which  we 
may  venture  to  say  should  be  still  more  sacred  in  their  eyes,  because* 
coining  more  directly  within  their  own  allotted  sphere,  our  Associates- 
will  try  to  verify  in  their  persons  the  words  of  the  poet : — 

Ladies,  shrinking  from  the  view 

Of  the  prying  day, 
Id  tranquil  diligence  pursue 

Their  heaven-appointed  way. 
Noiseless  duties,  silent  cares, 
Mercies  lighting  unawares, 
Modest  influence  working  good, 
Gifts  by  the  keen  heart  understood, 
Such  as  yiewless  spirits  might  give, 
These  they  love,  in  these  they  live. 

Our  little  chronicle  of  the  events  of  the  past  two  years  must  also  make- 
mention  of  a  very  opportune  visit  paid  us,  at  our  closing  meeting  last 

summer,  by  the  Rev.  J P— ,  8.  J.,  who  had  just  come  from  the- 

Mission  of  British  Honduras.  Having  spoken  most  pathetically  of 
the  many  wants  of  even  absolute  necessaries  for  the  decorous  celebra- 
tion of  the  Divine  Mysteries  in  these  distant  parts,  he  urgently  appealed 
for  a  remembrance  of  his  mission  when  the  ladies  came  to  vote  th» 
labours  of  their  hands.  His  words  met  with  a  hearty  response,  and 
served  as  a  new  stimulus  during  the  past  months. 

"  HE.  And  now  our  task  is  done,  except  the  pleasing  duty  of  return- 
ing thanks.  We  think  it  right  to  mention  that  many  of  the  vestments 
now  completed  are  composed  of  silks  and  other  materials  presented  by 
charitable  friends.  With  a  slight  revision  they  have  proved  most 
effective  for  their  present  purpose.  Among  our  special  benefactors, 
we  may  name  [but  the  names  must  be  omitted  in  this  republication, 
for  there  must  be  limits  even  to  our  amiable  indiscretion.]    Ladies. 


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The  Work  of  the  Poor  Church**.  42» 

will  delight  in  decking  themselves  out  gaily,  and  it  is  in  itself  no> 
fault ;  witness  the  authority  of  a  very  serious  mind : — 

Ladies,  wall  I  deem,  delight 

In  comely  tire  to  more; 
Soft  and  delicate  and  bright 

Are  the  robes  they  love. 
Silks,  where  hues  alternate  play, 
Shawls,  and  scarfs,  and  mantles  gay — 
'Tis  not  waste,  nor  sinful  pride- 
Name  them  not,  nor  fault  beside ; 
But  her  very  cheerfulness 
Prompts  and  weaves  the  curious  dress, 
While  her  holy  thoughts  still  roam 
'Mid  birth-friends  and  scenes  of  home. 
Pleased  to  please  whose  praise  is  dear, 
Glitters  she?  she  glitters  there ; 
And  she  has  a  pattern  found  her 
In  Nature's  glowing  world  around  her. 

Well,  this  may  suggest  to  some  present  that  a  few  of  these  '  shawls, 
and  scarf p,  and  mantles  gay'  might  be  occasionally  devoted  to  the- 
service  of  the  altar ;  and  let  us  assure  them  that,  not  only  *  silks, 
where  hues  alternate  play/  but  linen,  lace,  &c,  would  all  prove  of  the- 
greatest  utility.  The  work  is  expensive ;  we  would,  therefore,  ask  the- 
Assooiates  to  be  faithful  in  giving  their  yearly  subscription  according- 
to  their  means. 

"And  now  we  shall  conclude  in  the  words  of  the  illustrious 
Oratorian,  whom  we  have  already  twice  quoted,  and  over  whose 
elevation  to  the  Gardinalate  all  Catholic  hearts  are  rejoicing  to-day,. 
and  remind  them  that — 

Faith's  meanest  deed  more  farour  bears, 

Where  hearts  and  wills  are  weigh'd, 
Thtn  brightest  transports,  choicest  prayers, 

Which  bloom  their  hour  and  fade." 

To  this  .Report  was  appended  a  list  of  the  twenty-nine  sets  of  vest- 
ments, the  fifty-six  amices,  and  all  the  corporals,  palls,  cinctures,  &c, 
prepared  by  these  pious  hands  for  the  desolate  altars  of  foreign 
missions:  and  the  reading  of  the  Report  was  followed  by  the  con- 
gratulations of  the  Archbishop  of  Dublin,  who  presided  at  the  meet- 
ing, and  of  some  of  the  priests  who  was  present.  One  of  them  spoke- 
at  greater  length,  and  to  the  following  purport. 

"My  Lobd  Archbishop, 

"  The  pleasure  which  we  must  all  feel  in  being  allowed  to  take- 
part  in  this  edifying  and  attractive  function  has  been  for  me  consider- 


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424  The  Work  of  the  Poor  Ckarcbes. 

«Uy  mitigated  ainoe  the  condition  has  been  tacked  on  of  **agb$%  a  fair 
words9  in  reference  to  the  Report  which  has  just  been  submitted  to 
jour  Grace.  But  I  felt  less  uncomfortable  on  the  subject  when  I  had 
looked  over  the  Report,  for  I  saw  at  once  that  it  was  fully  able  to 
speak  for  itself,  especially  when  read  as  it  has  been  read. 

"  Once,  when  there  was  question  of  printing  an  account  of  the 
working  of  the  Volunteer  Movement  in  England,  an  experienced 
publisher  cautioned  the  persons  concerned  against  calling  it  a  Report ; 
for,  said  he,  nobody  ever  reads  a  Report.  That  would  not  be  the  case 
if  Reports  were  drawn  up  by  so  skilful  a  pen  as  the  Sion  Hill  Children 
of  Mary  evidently  have  at  their  service — a  pen  that  is  capable  of 
lending  novelty  to  any  theme,  even  if  it  were  as  completely  worn  out 
as  poor  little  Tommy's  shoes  [vide  Report  antea~\.  There  is  as  much 
4  rhyme  and  reason '  crushed  into  these  three  or  four  pages,  as  many 
clever  phrases  and  happy  literary  allusions  to  Moliere,  to  Dickens,  and 
sundry  others,  as  would  furnish  out  half-a-dozen  spicy  magazine 
Articles. 

"  In  fact  I  would  venture  to  charge  this  against  our  Report  as  a 
fault — it  is  too  lively,  and  too  interesting.  A  Report  ought  to  be  dull, 
in  order  that  the  speeches  and  attempts  at  speeches,  coming  afterwards, 
might  by  contrast  be  a  species  of  relief;  whereas  in  the  present 
instance,  the  transition  from  the  written  to  the  spoken  word  is  some- 
thing like  what  happens  in  the  public  performances  of  the  band  of  a 
Highland  regiment,  where,  after  the  brass  instruments  have  discoursed 
rich,  mellow  music  for  a  time,  you  are  treated  by  way  of  interlude  to  a 
equeaking  tune  on  the  bagpipes. 

"  However,  as  I  have  already  implied,  the  Report  states  its  own 
•case  better  than  any  one  could  do  for  it  You  have  no  doubt  been 
struck  with  the  judicious  impartiality  with  which  it  reminds  the 
Members  of  the  Association  of  their  various  social  duties,  without 
exaggerating  the  importance  of  its  own  peculiar  department,  or  insist- 
ing too  strenuously  that  there  is  nothing  like  leather. 

"  It  would  be  hard,  indeed,  to  exaggerate  the  holiness,  or  the  dignify, 
or  worth  of  the  special  industry  of  pious  zeal  that  is  adopted  and 
-cultivated  as  their  own,  by  this  congregation  of  the  Children  of  Mary, 
who  make  Sion  Hill  their  head-quarters  and  rendezvous — Altar  Work 
in  aid  of  the  Foreign  Missions. 

"  First,  work  for  the  altar.  When  we  think  what  the  Christian 
altar  is — the  poorest  just  as  much  as  the  richest,  the  altar  of  the 
humblest  country-chapel  just  as  much  as  the  altar  of  the  grandest 
basilica — when  we  realise  ever  so  faintly  what  Faith  teaches,  concern- 
ing the  Sacramental  Presence  abiding  in  the  tabernacle,  the  wonder 
grows  upon  us  that  this  zeal  for  the  beauty  of  God's  house,  and  for 
the  suitable  decoration  of  His  altar,  should  be,  as  the  Report  says,  a 
work  of  supererogation  merely,  and  not  a  solemn  and  sacred  obligation* 


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Th*  Work  of  th*  Poor  CAurete*  42S 

Tke  ehureb,  indeed,  whose  throne  the  pious  labours  o£  these  ladies  are 
meant  to  adorn  is  a  king  in  exile.  He  reigns  amongst  us  incognito* 
For  love  of  us  He  has  put  aside  all  the  works  of  royalty  and  assumed 
a  mean  disgnise.  But  those  to  whom  He  has  entrusted  his  secret,. 
those  who  are  of  the  household  of  the  faith,  will,  if  they  are  generous, 
be  all  the  more  earnest  in  giving  Him  proofs  of  their  allegiance,  in 
paying  Him  loving  homage,  and  so  making  amends  to  Him  for  what 
He  has  borne  for  their  Bakes.  These  good  ladies  who  work  for  the 
altar  act  thus,  and,  in  acting  thus,  they  are  entitling  themselves 
almost  literally  to  a  share  in  that  welcome  from  the  Judge :  *  Come,  ye 
blessed  of  my  Father  ...  for  I  was  naked  and  ye  clothed  Me/ 
"  Again,  altar  work  in  aid  of  the  foreign  missions. 

'  Ye  gentlemen  of  England  who  11  re  at  home  in  ease, 
'Tift  little  that  ye  think  upon  the  dangers  of  the  i 


And  we  Catholics  of  Ireland  who  live  at  home  with  as  large  an  amount 
of  ease  and  freedom  as  is  enjoyed  by  Catholics  perhaps  anywhere, 
but  this  is  by  no  means  enough,  for  of  course  we  have  grievances  and. 
shall  have,  till  the  purgatory  of  life  is  over — I  suspect  that  we  do  not 
possess,  and  do  not  try  to  acquire  a  sufficient  knowledge  of,  or  a  suffi- 
cient sympathy  for,  the  wants,  and  dangers,  and  sufferings  of  our 
brethren  in  various  other  portions  of  the  Church.  "We  must  beware- 
of  being  selfish,  or  narrow,  or  insular.  We  do  not  belong  merely  to 
the  Irish  Church — '  1. 0/  as  disestablished  servantmaids  and  coachmen 
are  wont  to  describe  their  religion  in  the  advertising  columns  of  the 
Daily  Express,  following  the  very  ridiculous  and  impudent  assumption 
of  their  betters — we  are  and  we  must  show  ourselves  to  be  the  loving 
and  faithful  and  large-hearted  Irish  children  of  the  one  Catholic 
Church  of  God. 

"  But  I  fear  this  is  more  than  the  few  words  I  was  asked  to  say.  It 
has  been  remarked  that  the  greatest  pleasure  of  giving  a  ball  is  the 
pleasure  of  having  it  over ;  and  the  remark  is  applicable  also  to  speech- 
making.  But  now — to  quote  for  the  last  time  the  hereinbefore  so 
often  quoted  Report — '  our  task  is  done  except  the  pleasant  duty  of 
giving  thanks.'  Some  of  my  thanks  go  to  the  last  paragraph  of  the 
Report  for  clearing  up  a  doubt  under  which  I  laboured,  as  to  the  author- 
ship of  the  verses  quoted  just  at  the  end,  in  defence  of  the  marvellous 
variety  of  colours  observable  in  the  flowers  of  the  garden,  and  in  ladies9 
dresses.  It  seems  that  we  owe  this  graceful  apology  to  the  author  of 
the  Apologia  pro  vitd  sud.  I  wonder  can  there  be  any  connection 
between  this  admirer  of  Cardinal  Newman's  poetry  (quoted  thrice 
within  so  small  a  compass),  and  the  writer  of  a  certain  poem,*  which 
Cardinal  Newman  in  turn  admires,  and  which  has  just  brought  me, 
from  his  sick  bed  in  the  Via  Sutina,  a  characteristic  little  note,  giving 

*  "  The  Pillar  of  the  Cloud,"  published  in  the  Isish  Monthly,  VoL  vii.  p.  331. 


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426  The  Work  of  the  Poor  Churches. 

thanks  for  •  lines  so  kind  to  me,  so  touching,  and  so  musical,  and  which 
I  will  value  the  more  since  you  tell  me  they  were  written  by  the 
•daughter  of  Mr.  Denis  Florence  MacOarthy.' 

"  Some  of  the  lines  addressed  to  this  *  gentle  Master/  as  the  poetess 
•calls  him,  may  be  applied  to  another  *  gentle  Master9 — the  prelate  whom 
-the  Vicar  of  Christ,  not  unasked,  has  just  placed  over  the  See  of  St 
Xaurence  O'Toole  and  of  Paul  Cardinal  Cullen : — 

Oh  !  still  for  long  and  happy  honoured  years 

Lead  thou  us  on ! 
Till  the  shades  vanish  and  the  day  appears, 

Lead  thou  us  on ! 
Till  on  thy  loved  and  venerated  brow 
Gleams  the  full  crown  whose  first  rays  dawn  e'en  now." 

Similar  meetings  of  this  Association,  held  in  subsequent  summers, 
•cannot  find  any  record  here,  for  our  space  will  hardly  suffice  to  com- 
memorate the  one  held  in  June,  1884,  under  the  presidency  of  the  same 
venerable  Archbishop,  who  had  now  become  Cardinal  Mac  Cabe.  The 
nature  of  the  Report  must  be  left  to  be  inferred  from  the  following 
remarks  which  it  elicited  from  one  of  the  priests  present  on  the 
•occasion* 

"May  rc  please  yoto  Eminence — These  good  ladies  being  them- 
-selves  unaccustomed  to  public  speaking— though  greatly  given  to 
speaking  in  private — have  asked  me  to  add  a  few  remarks  to  the 
Report  to  which  we  have  just  listened,  with  all  the  greater  pleasure 
that  it  was  read  by  one  whom  we  are  all  delighted  to  see  amongst  us 
again, 

"  The  Report  apologised,  I  think  unnecessarily,  for  the  rather  scanty 
*  -display  of  vestments  actually  on  the  premises.  Yet,  surely  vestments 
-are  not  like  those  famous  razors  which  were  made  not  to  shave  but  to 
sell;  vestments  are  not  made  to  be  exhibited,  but  to  be  used  in  God's 
aervioe,  and  in  particular  'Altar  work  for  the  Foreign  Missions;' 
vestments  made  by  this  Missionary  Dorcas  Society  (as  we  might  call 
it,  if  that  name  had  not  a  Protestant  sound),  this  All-Hallows  of  Sacred 
Needlework — such  vestments  are  especially  intended  to  be  scattered 
as  speedily  as  possible  over  various  forsaken  corners  of  God's  Church 
in  less  favoured  oountries  far  away.  I  remember,  I  regret  to  say,  a 
French  drinking  catch,  which  might  run  thus  in  English : — 

'  Pour  out  the  Tine  juice  rare, 

Drink  quick,  and  let  it  pass  ; 
In  your  hand  I  can  neither  bear 
A  full  nor  an  empty  glass.' 

"  A  shocking  quotation  this  to  fall  from  teetotal  lips !    But  the 
-application  of  it  is  less  immoral.    The  beaker,  which  ought  to  be 

nioiti^hvCoOOIe 
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The  Work  of  the  Poor  Churches.  427- 

neither  full  nor  empty— ni  vide,  ni  plein—ia  the  vestment  store  of  the 
Sien  Hill  Children  of  Mary ;  not  empty,  for  that  would  imply  that 
their  fingers  had  been  idle ;  not  foil,  for  that  might  indicate  that  their 
market  was  overstocked,  that  the  supply  of  vestments  was  in  excess  of 
the  demand. 

"  I  suspect  your  Eminence  would  forbid  me  to  praise  these  members 
of  your  flook,  especially  to  their  faces ;  and,  indeed,  the  utmost  praise 
that  could  be  given  to  them  might  be  conveyed  in  the  words  which  our 
Divine  Lord  suggested  to  his  disciples,  not  as  a  boast,  but  as  an  act  of 
humility,  *  Quod  debuimus  focere  fecimus' '  We  have  merely  done  what 
we  ought  to  do.'  The  most  diligent,  devoted,  and  indefatigable  worker 
of  *  Altar  Work  for  the  Foreign  Missions '  is  only  doing  what  is  directly 
prompted  by  our  faith  in  the  Blessed  Sacrament ;  and  the  sole  excuse 
of  those  who,  having  the  means  and  full  opportunity,  neglect  to  prove 
their  faith  in  the  same  way,  is  that  somehow  or  other  the  thought  has 
not  come  home  to  them.  Once  that  this  way  of  manifesting  the  reality 
of  their  faith  is  brought  under  their  notice,  those  who  have  the  time 
*nd  opportunity  can  hardly  fail  to  be  eager  to  have  some  part  in  so  holy 
•a  work  Instead,  therefore,  of  expecting  praise  or  thanks,  the  mem* 
bers  of  the  Association  who  have  worked  hardest,  and  who  deserve 
most  praise  and  thanks,  will  rather  expect  to  be  congratulated  on  being 
allowed  to  approach  so  near  to  the  altar,  and  they  will  ask  us  to  join 
in  thanking  our  Blessed  Lord  for  deigning  thus  to  stand  as  it  were  in 
need  of  the  services  of  His  poor  creatures,  daughters  of  Eve,  children 
of  Mary. 

"  St.  Alphonsus  Liguori  has  some  very  touching  lines,  which  Father 
Faber  has  translated  exquisitely,  in  which  the  poet-saint  pretends  to 
onvy  the  inanimate  objects  that  draw  closest  to  the  tabernacle — O 
happy  flowers!  0  happy  lights!  0  happy  pyx!  Each  of  these  is 
•addressed  in  its  separate  stanza.  The  members  of  this  Altar  Associa- 
tion have  turned  this  natural  feeling,  this  instinct  of  faith,  into  some- 
thing better  than  poetry,  by  securing  that  the  work  of  their  hands 
ehall  have  so  large  and  so  near  a  part  in  the  worship  of  our  Euoharistic 
Lord. 

"  Still  more  closely  bearing  on  this  present  subject  is  a  French  poem 
by  a  missionary  of  St.  Francis  de  Sales,  which  I  found  some  years  ago 
in  the  Mmagtr  du  SacrS  Cosur,  and  which  for  possible  future  use  I 
stowed  away  in  oertain  pigeonholes,  where  eondo  tt  eompono  qua  mox 
-depnmere  po$$m — like  our  old  friend  Horace,  or  like  that  worthy  lady, 
Mrs.  Smith,  of  whom  some  of  you  may  have  heard.  This  Mrs.  Smith 
was  a  married  lady,  and  her  husband  was  in  the  enjoyment  of  excel- 
lent health ;  yet  once  at  an  auction  she  was  observed  bidding  vigorously 
for  a  large  brass  door-plate  which  bore  the  name  of  Jones ;  for  (as  she 
explained  to  a  friend  when  the  article  was  knocked  down  to  her), 
supposing  anything  was  to  happen  to  poor  dear  Mr.  Smith,  and 


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49»  Th4  Work  eftk*  JW  Churches 

supposing  she  chanced  afterwards  to  many  some  gentleman  of  ike 
name  of  Jane*,  the  eenrideted  that  this  door-plat*  might  oome  in  use- 
ful, and  besides  it  was  no  cheap.  With  similar  foresight  I  stowed 
away  these  French  lines ;  and  now  the  occasion  has  arrived  in  which 
they  may  'come  in  useful.'  I  should  be  afraid  to  read  the  original 
aloud,*  especially  in  such  close  proximity  to  the  French  College,  but  I 
have  patched  up  a  rather  faithful  translation,  which  has  the  merit  of 
being  made  expressly  for  this  occasion,  and  has  the  additional  recom- 
mendation of  being  positively  my  last  word.  *  Better,'  says  the  Wise 
Man,  'is  the  end  of  a  discourse  than  the  beginning  thereof/ 

<<  This  anonymous  missionary  of  St.  Francis  de  Sales,  as  many  have 
done  before  him,  gives  to  members  of  Associations  of  Altar  Work,  like 
the  one  whose  guests  we  are  to-day,  a  literal  share  in  those  words  of 
our  Eedeemer  at  the  Last  Day — '  I  was  naked  and  ye  clothed  me,'  or, 
as  the  tyrannical  French  idiom  translates  the  words  so  as  almost  to 
turn  them  into  a  pun  in  the  present  context :  '  J'6tais  sans  vetemente, 
et  vous  m'en  avez  [donneV  The  poet  imagines  a  dialogue  between 
Christ  and  a  Christian  maiden,  who  is  startled  at  this  confession  of 
poverty  on  the  part  of  our  Divine  Lord— '  I  was  naked,  and  ye 
clothed  Me.' 

*  Nudut  tram,  et  eo-operuietie  me.9 

Philothea, 

What?  naked !    Thou  by  whom  the  vault  of  heaven 

Is  robed  in  azure — Thou  whoae  hand  has  given 

Their  grassy  mantle  to  our  meadows  green, 

And  to  our  flowers  their  gold  and  purple  sheen, 

Their  fleecy  vesture  to  our  flocks  and  herds, 

And  dainty  raiment  to  the  little  birds ! 

Thou  dost  the  crumbling  ruin  clothe  with  moss, 

Yet  here,  Lord,  naked  Thou  as  on  the  Cross, 

In  lowly  prison  beggest  1 

Theos. 

Daughter,  they 
Who  love,  forgetting  self,  give  all  away. 
Well  hare  I  decked  thy  dwelling-place  below, 
And  home  more  glorious  shall  my  hearen  bestow ; 
But  here  where  I  thy  daily  bread  am  made, 
My  glory  and  my  riches  I  have  laid 
Behind  me  in  my  heavenly  realm  above, 
And  for  my  clothing  count  upon  thy  love. 

Philothxa. 

Ah !  not  in  vain,  my  God  I    Behold  I  bring 
Silks,  jewels,  bracelets,  every  precious  thing 
That  tricked  me  out  in  days  of  worldly  pride. 
Dost  Thou  from  me  desire  aught  beside  ? 

*  See,  however,  page  440  of  this  Magazine. 

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Martyr-Thirst.  429 

Thxoa. 

Yet,  something  else.    Thou  hast  one  treasure  more— 
Thy  time.    Give  Me  the  fragment!  of  that  store. 
Come,  'neath  my  eye,  O  Daughter  1  take  thy  seat- 
One  little  prayer— then  gratp  thy  needle  fleet, 
Fast  let  it  run ;  I  will  each  stitch  requite. 
Let  silk  and  flax  with  softer  wool  unite  ! 
At  'broidered  satin,  flowered  damask  toil, 
And  to  my  Altar  eonsecrate  the  spoil. 
Happy  the  hours  'twixt  prayer  and  labour  pasted ; 
Grudge  not  suoh  hours,  my  daughter.    When  the  last 
For  thee  has  come,  I  then  my  saints  shall  call, 
And  show  to  them  and  to  my  Mother  all 
The  jewels  rich  thou  hast  to  crown  Me  brought, 
And  all  the  robes  thou  for  my  needs  hast  wrought : 
'  Ob  1  come  to  heaven  1 '  then  shall  I  say  to  thee, 
•  For  I  was  naked  and  thou  elothtfst  Me/  " 

With  theee  lines  the  speech  ended,  and  this  paper  may  also  end  with 
them.  Some  of  the  considerations,  put  forward  in  the  preceding  pages 
in  a  somewhat  confused  fashion,  may  be  useful  in  suggesting  other 
outlets  to  the  pious  zeal  of  many  of  our  readers,  especially  those 
members  of  the  devotus  foemineus  sexus  who,  at  breakfast,  are  often 
sorely  puzzled  for  some  profitable  employment  to  fill  the  long  interval 
till  dinner.  Happy  they  who  have  just  enough  of  good  work  to  do, 
and  who  do  it ! 


MARTYR-THIRST. 

IF  but  the  sword  might  try  me,  or  the  flame, 
Or  that  some  great  deed  I  might  strive  to  do, 
Storming  that  heaven  my  soul  doth  yearn  unto — 
Beaching  its  portal  thro'  fierce  torturing  shame ! 
But  day  by  day,  and  year  by  year,  the  same 
Dull,  weary  road  to  tread,  that  leadeth  through 
No  high  heroic  strife,  Beloved,  to  you — 
How  shall  I  win  aught  worthy  your  dear  name? " 

"  0  child,  am  I  not  with  you,  I  that  know 
Even  to  a  hairVbreadth  what  your  strength  may  dare  P 
Heaven  is  not  stormed,  nor  won  by  frantic  prayer, 
But  swift  obedience,  and  sweet  humbleness : 
Along  this  weary  road  my  pierced  feet  press 
Each  day,  each  year,  beside  you,  as  you  go ! " 

Evelyn  Pyotb. 
Vol.  xrv.  No.  158.  32 

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(     430    ) 


AUGUSTUS    LAW,    S.J. 
Notes  in  Remembrance. 

{Conclusion). 

Another  year  of  theological  study  after  ordination,  and  then  the 
external  work  of  the  Jesuit  priest  begins.  Father  Law  was  sent 
a  second  time  across  the  Tweed.  But  his  work  at  Edinburgh  was 
only  intended  to  be  temporary,  and  in  November,  1866,  the 
ex-middy  was  at  sea  once  more  on  his  way  to  Demarara.  It  was 
not  for  nothing  that,  years  previously,  before  he  had  entered  the 
Society  of  Jesus,  he  had  specially  invoked  the  aid  of  St.  Francis 
Xavier  as  well  as  his  younger  patron  St.  Aloysius;  and  the 
Apostle  of  the  Indies  obtained  for  him  a  share  of  his  own  mission- 
ary spirit.  From  the  earliest  period  of  his  religious  life,  he  openly 
aspired  to  the  work  of  the  foreign  missions.  His  thoughts  at  one 
time  turned  very  earnestly  towards  a  spot  which  St.  Francis 
Xavier  had  sanctified  with  his  presence,  Madura,  in  southern 
India,  chiefly,  perhaps,  on  account  of  his  intimacy  with  some 
French  Jesuits,  fellow-students  of  theology  at  St.  Beuno's,  who 
were  preparing  for  this  arduous  mission.  Madura  is  frequently 
mentioned  in  Father  Law's  correspondence,  about  the  year  1863. 
He  writes  from  St.  Beuno's,  to  his  brother  Frederick :  "  I  hope, 
when  I  am  a  priest,  to  go  on  the  foreign  missions.  I  would  like 
especially  to  go  to  Madura,  in  India."  And  to  his  cousin,  Sister 
Elizabeth  of  St.  Clare,  in  the  Franciscan  Convent,  Drumshambo, 
County  Leitrim,  he  writes  on  the  20th  of  February,  1864 :  "'  Ask 
St.  Joseph  to  restore  my  health  entirely,  if  he  sees  it  will  be  for 
God's  greater  glory,  and  ask  him  not  to  confine  himself  to  the 
care  of  the  body.  Will  you  pray  too  for  an  intention  I  have  much 
at  heart  P  It  is,  entre  nous,  to  know  God's  will  about  offering 
myself  for  the  Madura  mission  in  India.  We  have  got  four 
French  Jesuits  here  studying  English,  at  the  same  time  with  their 
theology,  in  order  to  go  out  to  that  mission ;  and  who  can  help 
being  envious  of  themP"  Many  could  help  it,  but  not  this 
generous  soul,  who  thought  others  were  like  himself :  though  with 
a  heart  so  full  of  the  warmest  home-affections  it  was  no  light 
sacrifice  to  go  far  beyond  the  range  of  the  penny  post,  which  keeps 
the  members  of  scattered  homesteads  together.     In  the  following 

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Augustus  Law,  S.J.  431 

-July  he  gives  full  warning  of  Us  plot  to  his  father,  who  had  too 
-congenial  a  spirit  to  pursue  any  course  like  the  modern  Parlia- 
mentary policy  of  obstruction.  "lam  praying  away  that  God's 
will  may  be  done  with  regard  to  my  going  out  to  Madura  or  not. 
They  want  an  English  Jesuit  at  Negapatam  very  much.  I  have 
offered  myself  to  Superiors  for  the  College  there.  So  pray  for 
me,  dearest  father." 

India,  however,  was  not  to  be  the  scene  of  his  missionary 
labours.  Each  "  province "  of  the  Society  of  Jesus  has  some 
foreign  mission  confided  to  its  charge.  Thus  an  outlet  for  Irish 
zeal  is  afforded  by  Australia,  Tasmania,  and  New  Zealand ;  and 
England  has  the  West  Indies.  To  the  West  Indies,  therefore, 
Father  Law  was  sent.  A  letter  to  his  father  on  the  12th  of 
.November,  1866,  is  dated  from  "the  Tasmania  at  sea,"  25 
degrees  of  north  latitude,  51st  degree  of  west  longitude,  wherever 
that  may  be.  "  I  was  so  delighted,  as  I  told  the  Provincial,  with 
the  generosity  with  which  you  willingly  and  cheerfully  let  me  go 
toDemerara.  For,  should  I  fall  a  victim  to  'Yellow  Jack/  I  could 
not  die  a  better  death  after  martyrdom ;  and  I  hope  that  in  that 
-case  God  in  His  mercy  might  overlook  all  my  other  shortcomings. 
However,  by  the  help  of  your  prayers,  I  trust  God  may  spare  me 
many  years  to  labour  for  His  glory,  and,  if  it  be  His  will,  to  see 
you  again,  my  dear,  dear  father.  But  fiat  voluntas  Dei.  This  is 
-not  our  home.  Heaven  is  our  home,  and  it  is  there  the  best  and 
happiest  meeting  will  take  place.  But  you  know  and  understand 
all  this  far  better  than  I  do-  Pray  that  I  may  know  and  under- 
stand it  better  every  day.  I  shall  be  so  delighted  when  Friday 
morning  comes,  for  I  shall  then,  I  hope,  be  able  to  say  Mass  at 
St.  Thomas's.  It  will  almost  appear  to  me  like  a  first  Mass.  For, 
before  this  voyage,  I  had  only  missed  saying  Mass  one  day  since 
my  ordination." 

I  am  forced  to  be  stingy  henceforward  in  my  quotations  from 
Father  Law's  letters ;  for  he  is  still  far  from  Africa.  A  long  letter 
from  New  Amsterdam,  British  Guiana,  March  14, 1868,  would  fur- 
nish many  interesting  extracts,  and  would  give  us  some  insight  into 
the  cheerful  industry  and  zeal  of  the  holy  writer,  who  seems  to  have 
no  want  in  his  new  home  except  an  odd  volume  of  St.  Chrysostom 
in  Greek.  He  soon  qualified  himself  to  preach  in  Portuguese, 
and  he  began  to  apply  himself  to  Chinese,  for  which  he  was 
destined  never  to  have  any  use ;  but  God,  we  may  be  sure,  took 
the  will  for  the  deed,  and  is  now  rewarding  him  for  this  and  for 
^everything.    Space  must  be  found  for  a  passage  from  a  letter 

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4tt  Mi&uwMk  Lmc,  &J. 

dated  Avgitsttiol  tfcat  yMT^ ««  Si  OwiteibB  am  to|>uWi AeA  Baying 
of  the  brilliant  Oratorian,  whom  the  kind  Irish  VieetQ{jr>  Lead. 
Aberdeen,  quoting  him  lately  to  the  boys  at  the  Christian  Brothers9' 
Reformatory,  Artane,  called  "  that  great  and  good  man,  the  late 
Father  Faber,"  and  who  is  here  affectionately  called  "poor  Father 
Faber,"  because  just  then  recently  deceased.  "  If  people  knew 
this  colony  better  at  home,  many  would  come  out  for  their  health, 
especially  weak-chested  people.  I  have  now  pretty  well  attained 
to  the  proper  voice  of  a  Law.  You  remember  what  poor  Father 
Faber  used  to  say — 'Now  do  speak  with  a  voice  as  much 
resembling  a  zephyr  as  any  son  of  William  Law  can/  ...  Let 
us  remember  each  other  before  Jesus  in  the  Blessed  Sacrament. 
I  like  that  way  the  Portuguese  and  Italians  have  of  saying 
'  Jesus  Sacramented ' — Jeau  sacramentado.  If  I  had  my  way,  I 
would  make  it  English." 

Five  years  in  such  a  mission  as  Berbice  is  a  long  term  of 
service,  and  the  address  presented  by  the  inhabitants  of  all 
nationalities  to  Father  Law,  on  his  departure  in  October,  1871,. 
speaks  of  it  as  such,  and  goes  very  far  beyond  the  formalities  of 
an  ordinary  farewell  address.  Probably  his  recall  would  have 
taken  place  about  that  time,  even  if  his  presence  in  Europe  had 
not  been  required  for  his  tertianship — a  second  novioeship,  in 
which  the  mature  Jesuit,  after  ordination,  and  generally  after 
some  experience  of  the  priestly  work  to  which  the  remainder  of 
his  life  is  to  be  devoted,  is  allowed  a  year  of  solitude  and  leisure 
to  become  a  novice  again,  and  to  refresh  his  spirit  for  the  sacred 
toils  before  him.  In  his  New  Year's  letter  to  his  father,  Augusta* 
writes  on  the  2nd  of  January,  1872 :  "  I  hope  the  Infant  Jesus 
and  His  Blessed  Mother  will  give  you  some  good  New  Year's 
/gifts,  such  as  the  world  cannot  give,  and  beg  them  to  be  merciful 
to  me,  that  I  may  make  a  devout  tertianship.  I  thank  God  much 
for  this  rest  for  the  soul  that  we  get  in  the  tertianship." 

When  "ready  for  the  road"  again,  Father  Law  was  sent 
temporarily  to  Blackpool,  and  then  to  Dalkeith,  and  for  a  longer 
term  of  work  to  Galashiels  and  to  Edinburgh ;  from  which  last 
he  writes,  on  September  2nd,  1875 :  "  Dearest  Father,  I  am  off  to 
Grahamstown,  Gape  of  Good  Hope,  on  the  20th."  Out  of  his  last 
fortnight  in  his  native  land,  he  gives  eight  days  to  his  annual 
retreat,  to  make  sure  of  it.  He  had  probably  no  notion  that  it 
was  to  be  his  last  at  home.  We  can  imagine  (even  we  can  go  that 
length),  how  sincerely  and  earnestly  such  a  soul  made  the  medita- 
tion of  the  Two  Standards  at  such  a  crisis  of  his  life. 

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*£  MB 

His  first  work  n  Africa  wai  teaching  Latin  and  Greek  in  tt» 
Aldan's  College,  as  there  were  not  yet  pupils  for  philosophy.  Bub, 
before  long,  other  projects  were  formed,  and  to  his  delight, 
Augustus  Law  was  chosen  to  take  part  in  an  attempt  to  establish 
a  mission  among  the  natives  in  the  valley  of  the  Zambesi 

On  Easter  Tuesday,  April  15,  1879,  a  solemn  High  Mass  was 
•celebrated  at  St.  Patrick's  Cathedral,  Grahamstown,  in  which  all 
the  sacred  ministers  were  members  of  the  expedition  which  was  to 
set  out  the  next  day.  The  Bishop,  Dr.  Rickards,  preached  a  very 
pathetic  sermon  of  blessing  and  farewell. 

On  May  1st,  Augustus  writes  to  his  father  a  touching  letter, 
irom  which  we  venture  to  quote  some  words  which  do  not  regard 
his  own  absence  or  danger  but  a  sadder  trial.  "  Still  keep  up  your 
spirits  for  our  sake.  All  of  us  want  you  still,  dearest  father,  and 
to  see  you  alive  yet  for  many  years,  to  encourage  us  and  help  us 
on.  For  you  are  not  only  an  earthly  father  to  us ;  you  are  our 
spiritual  father  also.  Under  God  we  all  owe  the  faith  to  you,  and 
we  don't  want  to  lose  our  father  in  the  faith.  When  God's  will 
calls  you,  we  shall  bow  to  it  But  do  not  hasten  your  death  by 
sorrow,  for  our  sakes  we  beg  it.  .  .  .  Please,  pray  for  the  mission. 
It  is  prayer  that  converts  souls.  And  will  you  get  prayers  as  well 
from  any  Catholics  you  meet  f  Perhaps  some  of  the  priests  would 
ask  the  prayers  of  their  congregations.  God  bless  you,  dearest 
father.    Every  little  suffering  I  get  in  our  mission  shall  go  for 

dear 's  conversion.    And  I  am  glad  that,  nolem  volens,  I  shall 

have  to  suffer  some  little  things  in  our  mission,  as  I  am  such  a 
miserable  fellow  at  anything  voluntary  of  that  kind.  And  let  us 
pray  that  beautiful,  consoling,  Davidioal  prayer :  '  Mirifiea  miseri- 
•cordias  tuas,  Domine,  qui  salvos  facis  sperantes  in  te.'  *  Make 
loonderful  thy  mercies,  O  Lord,  Thou  who  savest  all  who  hope  in 
Thee/  Think  over  these  words,  dearest  father;  and  they  will 
help  you  much." 

Here  he  naturally  looks  forward  to  the  prospect  of  surviving 
the  good  parent  who  has  erected  this  simple  monument  to  his 
memory;  and  he  speaks  of  the  "little  sufferings"  of  amission 
which,  after  great  sufferings,  was  soon  to  cost  him  his  life*  How 
•sweetly  and  gently  all  things  are  ordered  for  us  by  our  Father 
who  is  in  heaven ! 

During  the  time  that  remained  to  him  for  letter-writing  under 
•difficulties,  Father  Law  sent  many  beautiful  letters,  especially  to 
his  father,  and  also  to  the  Mother  Superior  of  the  Grahamstown 
Convent,  whom  he  is  never  tired  thanking  for  qll  the  kindness  she 

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484  Augustus  Law,  8.  J. 

had  shown  for  three  years.  We  are  puzzled  how  to  treat  the  rest 
of  our  story.  The  letters  cannot  be  given  with  any  fulness,  and 
they  lose  their  interest  when  the  little  personal  touches  are  cut  off.. 
Still  less  can  we  condense  the  journal  which  is  itself  written  in 
that  jerky,  fragmentary  style  which  sixpenny  telegrams  help  to- 
cultivate. 

Before  Christmas,  he  had  learned  to  change  the  tone  he  had 
taken  in  one  of  our  latest  extracts  in  trying  to  console  his  father. 
At  least  he  tells  him  plainly  that  they  are  not  to  meet  again  on 
earth.  "  Best  love  to  dearest  May  and  all  at  home.  I  cannot 
expect  to  see  any  of  my  dear  relations  again  in  this  world ;  but  the 
separation  is  for  Jesus  Christ,  and  He  will  know  how  to  manage 
that  we  shall  be  no  losers  by  it  in  eternity.  I  beg  dearest  May,, 
and  you,  dear  father,  and  all  my  brothers  and  sisters,  to  help  me 
by  their  prayers,  and  to  think  that,  as  I  am  here,  the  Amandebele 
country  is  specially  confided  to  their  prayers.  So,  in  their  visits  to 
the  Blessed  Sacrament,  let  them  sometimes  repair  the  want  of 
devotion  to  the  Blessed  Sacrament  which  there  is  here  from 
ignorance  of  the  faith.  In  their  acts  of  contrition  let  them  grieve 
for  the  sins  of  the  Amandabele  who  do  not  understand  sin  or 
sorrow  for  it.  In  their  acts  of  adoration  let  them  give  God  some 
homage  for  the  poor  Amandabele  who  do  nothing  for  God.  And 
when  praying  to  the  Blessed  Virgin  Mary,  let  them  pray  to  Mary 
for  them,  and  she  will  be  moved  when  she  looks  at  such  great 
misery  as  there  is  here/'  But  the  next  passage  that  catches  our 
attention  is  not  about  the  poor  African  pagans,  but  about  one  who 
had  gone  astray  at  home.  "  Poor  dear  fellow !  0  dear  Maude,, 
can't  we  force  the  Sacred  Heart  to  lead  him  back  P  Let  us  persevere 
praying,  and  not  despair.  And  I  think  one  way  is,  for  us  all  to 
love  God  more  intensely  than  ever,  and  be  very  generous  to  Him. 
And  when  one  was  generous  with  God,  was  God  ever  niggardly  in 
return P"  In  this  letter,  written  from  Gubuluwayo,  in  April, 
1880,  he  bids  his  sister  not  believe  any  reports  about  the  sufferings 
that  they  (the  Missioners)  were  enduring.  "  I  have  never  yet 
suffered  on  the  journey  as  much  as  I  did  when  serving  her  Majesty 
in  the  Navy/'  Yet  a  month  later  he  was  writing  to  his  father  his 
last  letter,  except  one,  the  last  of  all.  He  was  then  on  his  way 
to  Umzila's  country  under  difficulties  that  we  despair  of  describing 
in  the  space  that  now  remains  to  us.  The  terrible  tetze  fly,  fatal 
to  oxen,  no  roads,  no  civilization — the  three  hundred  odd  miles, 
between  Gubuluwayo  and  Umzila's  kraal  was  worse  than  thousands- 
of  miles  in  a  fairly  civilized  country.    "  Goodbye  for  the  present* 

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Augustus  Law,  &J1  485- 

deareftt  father.  I  hope  that  you  have  gone  through  this  winter  all 
right,  and  that  you  may  live  for  many  years  to  encourage  and 
bless  us  all."  Us!  But  his  only  remaining  letter  to  his  father 
was  his  dying  scrawl. 

On  May  16,  1880,  begins  a  journal  on  the  model  of  Augustus 
Law's  boyish  journals  kept  under  very  different  circumstances. 
The  minute  account  of  the  strange  journey  could  not  be  con- 
densed here  into  sufficiently  narrow  compass.  All  through,  Father 
Law  shows  the  same  brave,  cheerful  nature,  and  the  same  readiness 
to  be  grateful  to  any  one  who  treated  them  kindly.  He  formed 
a  high  idea  of  the  poor  savage  tribes  through  which  he  passed. 
On  the  9th  of  August,  they  were  obliged  to  abandon  their  waggon 
and  to  continue  their  journey  on  foot :  for  the  country  was  of 
such  a  nature  that  Father  Law  considered  it  a  relief  when  his 
horse  stuck  hopelessly  in  a  morass,  and  had  to  be  left  there  to 
perish. 

Writing  home  once  from  Demerara,  Father  Law  had  quaintly 
spoken  of  having  on  a  certain  sick  call  "  moored  his  mare  to  a 
gate,  but  she  drifted  away."  The  same  nautical  phraseology  crops 
up  occasionally  in  this  last  journal.  But  his  naval  training  served 
him  in  the  serious  matter  of  determining  the  proper  direction  to 
take  in  plodding  on  through  this  trackless,  homeless,  unexplored 
country,  where  his  observations  of  the  sun  were  his  only  safe 
guide  as  to  his  route.  Here  is  the  way  they  kept  the  Feast  of  the 
Assumption,  in  the  year  1880: — 

Saturday,  August  14,  1880. — Passed  two  or  three  small  kraals.  Tried  to 
buy  some  corn  or  meal,  but  they  either  had  none  or  did  not  wish  to  sell  it.  This 
morning-  we  finished  the  last  of  the  rhinoceros,  and  there  is  nothing  left  but  a 
small  piece  of  the  Australian  dampers  we  took  with  us.  So  our  dinner  was 
small,  and  our  supper  still  smaller.  Thank  God,  the  health  of  all  keeps  good. 
We  made  about  nine  miles  to-day. 

Sunday,  August  15,  1880,  Assumption. — Our  Blessed  Lady  helped  us  and 
would  not  let  us  fast  altogether  on  her  great  feast,  and  so  after  one  and  a  half 
miles  we  came  to  a  small  kraal  where  we  bought  meal  and  beans,  enough  for 
two  days,  and  a  little  salt.  I  said  Mass  on  a  rock  in  the  bed  of  the  Sabi.  The 
Sabi  has  run  south  all  the  time  we  have  gone  along  it.  How  thankful  one 
feels,  and  how  heartily  one  says  grace  after  meals,  when  living  as  we  are  living 
now.  After  a  good  breakfast  for  us  all,  Cape  Corps,  Tom,  and  Isihlahla  started 
at  noon  to  hunt,  and  we  remained  where  we  were.  They  returned  at  two, 
having  shot  nothing*  We  started  at  four,  and  after  going  four  and  a  half  miles 
we  came  upon  a  large  troop  of  red  bucks  in  a  grove  of  palms,  and  shot  two. 
How  grateful  we  felt  I  and  we  thought  it  was  the  Blessed  Virgin  who  sent  them. 
Slept  in  the  bed  of  the  Sabi.    Three  miles  to-day. 

When  at  last  after  a  weary  journey,  sometimes  getting  over  only 

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436  Augustus  Law,  B.J. 

a  few  miles  in  the  day,  they  reached  Umzila's  kraal,  they  had 
further  delay  in  being  admitted  to  an  interview  with  the  king-. 
They  saw  him  first  on  Sunday,  5th  of  September — "  a  quiet,  sedate- 
looking  man  of  about  fifty  or  fifty-five  years  of  age."  He  agreed 
tp  send  Brother  Sadeleer  and  some  of  his  men  for  the  waggon, 
which  contained  all  that  was  necessary  for  them  in  their  present 
straits.  Brother  Hedley  and  Father  Law,  who  were  too  weak  to 
accompany  the  party  in  search  of  the  waggon,  remained  in  a  little 
hut,  "  like  prisoners,"  as  Father  Law  says.  There  is  some  mystery 
about  Umzila's  conduct.  Probably,  if  he  had  lavished  all  the 
resources  at  his  command,  it  would  not  have  availed  for  the  poor 
European  missioner,  not  very  robust  naturally  and  now  completely 
worn  out.  The  savages  seem  to  have  been  far  kinder  than  civilized 
strangers  often  are.  Especially,  there  is  a  parallel  here  for  the 
eloquent  tribute  paid  by  Mungo  Park  to  the  kindness  of  poor 
savage  women.  On  the  7th  of  September,  Father  Law  notes  in 
his  journal :  "  The  wife  of  a  man  living  in  a  hut  close  to  us,  kindly 
brought  us  a  kind  of  soup  made  out  of  kafir  corn  (ubudu).  She 
took  pity,  she  said,  on  the  white  people  so  in  want."  And  some 
days  later :  "  The  good  woman  next  door,  Kuhlisa,  is  always  bring- 
ing us  something.  God  reward  her  kindness.  .  .  .  The  daughter 
of  Kuhlisa  asked  me  some  questions  when  I  was  at  my  breviary, 
and  I  said  I  was  talking  to  the  Chief  above.  I  told  her  what  I 
was  able,  and  she  immediately  ran  to  her  mother  and  told  her. 
The  mother  came  and  asked,  '  Is  there  really  a  Lord  above  P '  and 
then  I  spoke  to  her  still  more.  They  were  much  struck  at  hearing 
we  had  no  wives,  and  the  reason  why — that  we  might  give  our 
whole  selves  to  the  Lord  above."  On  the  16th  of  September,  he 
adds :  "  Kuhlisa  came  and  asked  more  questions,  and  I  explained, 
as  well  as  I  could,  the  judgment,  heaven  and  hell,  the  immortality 
of  the  soul,  the  orucifix,  Ac." 

On  September  12th,  he  had  the  consolation  once  more  of 
Mass,  after  a  fortnight's  privation.  On  Sunday,  September  19, 
"Alas,  no  Mass.  God  grant  it  may  be  the  last  Sunday  without 
it."  On  September  24 :  "  Brother  Hedley  and  myself  dowk  with 
a  little  fever.  I  am  not  astonished  at  our  being  sick,  for  we  have 
now  for  three  weeks  had  nothing  but  amabele  (corn).  September 
25,  Brother  Hedley  all  right;  I  still  very  unwell.  I  blessed  St. 
Ignatius's  water.  We  have  no  natural  means,  and  so,  like 
Josaphat,  we  must  turn  our  eyes  to  God.  September  26,  Sunday y 
I  am  a  little  better.  Happiness  of  saying  Mass.  It  was  a  struggle. 
But  what  a  consolation  to  have  the  Blessed  Sacrament  onto 
more.9 

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Auguetw  Law,  8.  J*  4*7 

Some  of  the  entries  following  that  which.  I  have  just  quoted, 
•describe  very  simply  Father  Law's  efforts  to  get  food  when  they 
had  nothing  left  but  two  or  three  handfuls  of  amabele — coarse 
•corn — with  which  they  had  nothing  to  mix  but  dirty  water. 
There  is  no  complaint  of  any  kind,  but  excuses  for  every  one, 
and  when  he  gets  half  a  sack  of  the  corn,  he  goes  home  "  glad 
and  grateful"  The  entry  for  October  1st,  ends,  "  I  feel  so  sad 
when  I  look  at  Brother  Hedley.  He  looks  haggard  and  going 
•down  the  hill.  Dear  Lord,  look  on  us."  A  week  after — how  long 
the  week  must  have  seemed ! — "  said  Mass  and  received  Holy 
Communion,  as  though  it  was  my  Yiaticum.  Fever.  Brother 
Hedley  fairly  well."  The  next  day  he  walked  over  to  the  kraal, 
"  to  see  if  I  could  possibly  get  a  little  meat— but  no." 

Does  the  reader  of  these  notes  remember  Father  Law's  first 
Mass  P  It  was  celebrated  in  the  little  church  of  the  pretty  little 
Welsh  town  of  St.  Asaph,  served  by  his  happy  father,  and  with 
Father  James  M'Swiney,  S.J.,  as  assistant  priest,  on  Monday, 
September  25th,  1865.  "  What  a  day  of  joy  for  all  our  hearts  !" 
lis  Sister  of  Mercy  had  written.  And  now,  in  fifteen  years,  we 
have  come  to  his  last  Mass,  celebrated  in  a  miserable  Kaffir  hut 
by  the  poor  Missionary  in  the  last  stage  of  emaciation,  served 
"by  a  lay  brother  in  almost  as  hopeless  a  condition.  In  the  previous 
month,  on  the  fifteenth  anniversary  of  his  first  Mass,  he  noted 
in  his  journal  that  "  it  was  a  struggle "  to  perform  the  sacred 
rites;  and  an  additional  fortnight  of  starvation,  sickness,  and 
anxiety  must  have  reduced  him  pitiably.  Here  are  the  last  lines 
he  wrote : — 

Sunday,  October  10, 1880.— Slept  beautifully  last  night— a  thing  I  hate  not 
had  for  a  long  time.  Brother  Hedley  keeps  welL  Managed  to  say  Mass. 
What  a  consolation  1  I  begged  our  dear  Lord,  at  receiving  Holy  Communion, 
that  He  would  absolve  me  and  give  me  Extreme  Unction.  Dear  Jesus  I  He 
will  not  desert  me. 

[The  following  letter  is  copied  from  the  back  of  one  of  the  bits  of  paper  on 
which  the  chart  of  the  route  is  drawn.] 

October  10. 
Dear  Father  Wrld,— Pray  for  me.  So  many  thanks  for  all  your  kind- 
ness to  me.  I  can't  expect  to  live  unless  the  waggon  arrives  very  soon.  The 
fever  has  weakened  me  so  much,  and  there  is  only  Kafir  corn  to  bring  my 
■strength  back,  not  even  salt  to  put  with  it  But  all  these  troubles  help  my  hope 
that  God  would  not  send  them  unless  in  His  mercy  to  prepare  me  for  heaven* 
When  you  hear  of  my  death,  write  a  good  consoling  letter  to  my  father  .... 
I  hope  you  will  receive  my  journal  all  right 


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43&  4*Vtt*l«*  Law*  S.J. 

Monday,  October  11,  1880.— Bad  all  to-day.  Delirious  in  the  evening- 
Brother  Hedley  so  kind.    God  bless  him  and  take  care  of  him  when  I  die. 

Tuesday,  October  12,  1880. — Very  weak.  Jesus,  I  cannot  pray  much,  bat 
my  heart  is  with  Thee,  and  rests  in  Thy  infinite  mercy. 

Wednesday,  October  18, 1890.— Bain  last  night  and  to-day,  and  water  came 
in  the  hut.  Brother  Hedley  is  keeping  fairly  well.  Father,  into  Thy  hands  I 
commend  my  spirit.  Lord  Jesus,  receive  my  soul.  Lore  to  all  the  Fathers  and 
Brothers.    The  two  king's  boys  leave  us,  and  God  is  our  only  protection. 

Umzxla's,  October  12. 
Deabest  Fathbb, — I  am  not  far  off  my  end.  I  trust  in  the  infinite 
mercy  of  God.  God  bless  you — you  were  the  means  of  giving  me  the  Holy 
Faith.  .  .  .  Best  love  to  all.  I  die  of  fever — but,  if  I  could  have  had  proper 
nourishment,  I  think  I  could  easily  have  got  right.  But  God's  will  is  sweetest. 
Jesus!    Mary! 

Your  most  affectionate  son, 

A.  H.  Law,  S.J. 

It  is  wonderful  that  his  lingering  martyrdom  lasted  more  than 
another  month  after  the  date  of  this  touching  letter.  The  same 
day  he  wrote,  in  pencil,  minute  directions  to  Father  Wehl  and 
Brother  Sadeleer,  showing  the  wisest  thoughtfulness  about  the 
future  of  the  Mission  for  which  he  was  giving  up  his  life.  From 
the  20th  of  October  his  strength  utterly  failed,  and  soon  after 
yellow  fever  set  in.  For  the  last  six  days  of  his  life  he  was 
delirious,  with  very  few  moments  of  consciousness.  Would  that 
we  could  even  know  the  form  that  his  ravings  took !  The  good 
lay-brother  helped  him  as  much  as  he  could,  but  he  was  himself 
prostrated  by  fever  and  in  the  weakest  state  possible.  Father 
Law  died  on  the  25th  November,  1886.  The  survivor  was  lying 
on  the  same  pallet,  utterly  unable  to  move  ;  and,  when  afterwards 
Brother  Sadeleer  saw  him,  he  burst  into  tears,  so  dreadful  was 
his  appearance.  "  In  my  whole  life  I  never  saw  any  sick  person 
in  so  wretched  a  condition;  his  whole  body  was  covered  with 
tumours  and  ulcers,  and  the  wounds  filled  with  vermin;  he 
appeared  stupified  by  the  excess  of  his  sufferings,  physical  and 
mental/'  This  description  of  the  one  who  lived  will  help  us  to 
picture  the  deathbed  of  the  one  who  died.  Father  Alfred  Weld, 
who  has  now  charge  of  the  Zambesi  Mission,  sending  from  Fiesole, 
in  May,  1881,  to  the  Hon.  W.  T.  Law  the  first  news  of  his  son's 
death,  compares  it  with  that  of  St.  Francis  Xavier.  "  Alone — 
with  a  faithful  Kaffir  probably  by  his  side — in  a  little  hut,  at  the 
entrance  of  the  Mission  for  which  he  had  given  his  life :  God  was 
satisfied  and  took  him  to  his  reward." 

There  is  no  doubt  that  we  read  accounts  of  the  holy  lives  of 
French  and  Italian  men  and  women  and  children,  with  a  certain 


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Augustus  Law,  &  J*.  43J> 

degree  of  misgiving,  as  if  they  belonged  to  a  race  somewhat 
different  from  our  own.  Here  is  one  whom  so  many  witnesses,, 
who  are  more  or  less  like  ourselves,  the  writer  of  these  notes 
among  them;  combine  in  describing  as  amiable,  genial,  clever,, 
sensible,  unselfish,  self-sacrificing  and  holy,  full  of  faith  and 
charity  in  a  very  uncommon  degree.  He  is  no  "  jeune  homme 
de  Poitiers,"  such  as  figures  in  many  a  pious  story,  and  about 
whom  some  are  inclined  to  be  as  sceptical  as  Dickens'  nursetender 
was  about  the  existence  of  Mrs.  Harris.  We  know  something 
about  Augustus  Law's  birth  and  family  connections,  and  his  early 
career  in  the  navy.  The  readers  of  the  volumes  which  we  have 
hastily  summarised,  have  been  admitted  into  his  confidence.  His 
most  familiar  scraps  of  letters  are  laid  before  us.  And  the  feeling 
that  this  intimacy  excites  in  us  has  been  thus  expressed  by  one  of 
those  whom  he  served  in  Grahamstown  :  "  What  a  life  of  holiness- 
from  the  cradle  to  the  grave !  Ah !  how  insignificant  our  poor 
efforts  to  lead  a  Christian  life  seem  in  comparison  to  him  who 
gave  up  all  so  freely  for  our  dear  Lord's  sake.  Truly,  his  must 
be  a  glorious  crown." 

This  sketch  is  concluded  on  the  feast  of  St.  Mary  Magdalene. 
Perhaps  the  only  church  in  these  islands  dedicated  to  God,  under 
the  invocation  of  her  who  loved  much,  is  that  at  Mortlake,  in 
Surrey,  in  which  a  marble  slab  has  been  placed  with  the  following^ 
inscription : — 

* 

In  Memoriam. 

The  Rev.  Augustus  Henry  Law,  S.J. 

Received,  when  an  Officer  of  the  Royal  Navy, 

Into  the  one  Fold  of  Christ,  by  Dr.  Grant,  Bishop  of  Southward 

In  this  Church,  on  May  16th,  1852 ; 

Died  of  fever,  a  Missionary  Priest, 

On  the  Zambesi  Mission, 

At  Umzila's  Kraal,  South  Africa, 

In  the  48th  year  of  his  age,  on  November  25th,  1880. 

R.  I.  P. 

May  the  memory  and  the  prayers  of  Augustus  Law  help  us 
to  be  faithful  children  of  the  Church  which  drew  him  into  her 
bosom,  and  which  satisfied  to  the  full  every  desire  of  his  brave, 
pure,  and  generous  heart ! 


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L'CEUVRE  DES  TABERNACLES.* 
'  X&aii  sans  rgtements,  et  yous  m'en  ayes  donnl"— JlfcUth.  xxr. 


Q 


UOI !  sans  vetements,  Vous,  par  qui  le  ciel  s'azure, 
Vous  qui  parez  nos  pres  d'un  manteau  de  gazon, 
Nos  fleurs,  de  pourpre  et  d'or,  nos  brebis,  de  toison ! 
Vous  habillez  de  mousse  une  pauvre  masure, 
Et  nu,  manquant  de  tout,  dans  une  humble  prison, 
Seigneur,  vous  mendiez ! 

Ma  fille,  quand  on  aime 
On  donne  a  pleines  mains  en  s'oubliant  soi-m6me. 
J'ai  tout  fait  pour  orner  ici-bas  ton  sejour, 
Je  te  prepare  au  ciel  de  bien  autres  largesses ; 
Mais,  quand  je  me  suis  fait  ton  pain  de  chaque  jour, 
J'ai  laisse*  dans  les  cieux  ma  gloire  et  mes  richesses, 
Et  j'ai,  pour  me  vgtir,  compte"  sur  ton  amour. 

Oh !  vous  ne  serez  point  decu,  voici  les  soies, 

Les  perles,  les  bijoux  et  les  bracelets  d'or 

Qui  me  couvraient  auz  jours  de  mes  mondaines  joies ; 

Void  met  diamants  .  •  •  Que  voulez-vous  enoor  P  .  .  . 

Quelque  chose  de  plus.    Le  temps  est  un  taresor, 
Donne-moi  les  debris  de  ton  temps ;  viens,  ma  fille, 
Assieds-toi  sous  mes  yeux,  prie  et  prends  ton  aiguille 
Vite,  fais-la  courir,  je  compterai  ses  pas, 
Qu'a  la  laine,  la  soie  et  le  lin  se  marient; 
Emaille  le  satin,  f ais  fleurir  le  damas : 
Tea  heures  de  labour,  ne  les  marchande  pas. 
Amene-moi  des  scaurs  qui  travaillent  et  prient, 
Et  quand  ta  derniere  heure,  enfin,  aura  sonne* 
J'appellerai  mes  Saints,  mes  Anges,  et  ma  Me*re, 
Et,  montrant  les  joyaux  dont  tu  m'as  couronnd, 
Les  linges  dont  tea  mains  ont  pare*  ma  mise're, 
Je  te  dirai :  "  Viens,  viens  au  sejour  de  lumiere, 
Je*tais  sans  vfttements,  et  tu  m'en  as  donne*." 


A  translation  of  this  poem  will  be  found  at  page  498. 


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<    441    ) 


THE  LAST  MARTYR  OF  THE  CONFESSIONAL. 
By  Frank  Hugh  O'Donnell. 

SOME  weeks  ago  a  visit,  partly  of  business,  partly  of  recreation, 
brought  me  to  the  little  frontier  town  of  Qlatz,  which  was 
a  hotly  contested  centre  of  hostilities  between  Frederick,  the  robber 
King  of  Prussia,  and  the  Austro-Hungarian  Empress,  Queen 
Maria  Theresa,  more  than  a  hundred  years  ago.  Beyond  a  gloomy 
castle  or  citadel  there  is  not  very  much  to  recall  those  times,  but 
for  one  fearful  memory  which  will  for  ever  haunt  the  old  walls, 
branding  with  eternal  infamy  the  ruthless  monarch,  but  filling 
the  Catholic  wayfarer  with  a  sentiment  too  holy  for  indignation, 
and  full  of  pride  in  spite  of  its  associations  of  sorrow. 

"  Yes,  not  far  from  this  very  spot,  Frederick  II.  hanged  Father 
Andreas  Faulhaber,  for  refusing  to  break  the  secret  of  the  confes- 
sional." So  said  my  companion ;  and  after  telling  me  the  story, 
he  subsequently  put  me  in  the  way  of  studying  the  documents- 
upon  the  terrible  event.  At  a  moment  when  the  Prussian  State, 
beaten  and  baffled,  is  reeling  back  from  its  last  and  most  systematic 
attempt  to  crush  the  Catholic  religion  in  Germany,  the  story  is 
worth  relating  in  a  short  compass. 

To  put  it  in  a  few  words,  Frederick  the  Second  was  greatly 
exasperated,  during  the  year  1757,  by  the  evident  reluctance  of 
the  conscripts  raised  in  the  Catholic  province  of  Silesia,  which  ho 
had  lately  seized  from  the  Empress-Queen,  to  stay  beneath  the 
Prussian  banners.  There  were  constant  desertions,  the  peasants 
risking  everything  to  escape  into  Poland  or  into  the  armies  of 
Austria.  As  they  had  to  fight,  better  fight  against  the  Prussian 
than  for  him.  There  were,  of  course,  some  weaker  characters, 
among  the  deserters.  One  of  these  latter,  a  young  conscript  of 
nineteen  years,  was  captured  in  the  act ;  and  as  Frederick  had  re- 
cently given  orders  to  supervise  narrowly  the  action  of  the  Silesian 
clergy,  whom  he  suspected  of  pro- Austrian  leanings,  it  seems  that 
the  local  Prussian  commander,  a  Lieutenant-General  De  La  Motte 
Fouque\  of  Huguenot  descent,  ordered  the  unhappy  deserter  to  be 
severely  questioned  on  the  subject.  The  trembling  boy  was  asked 
had  he  been  to  confession  previous  to  attempting  to  escape,  and 
whether  he  had  told  the  priest  of  his  intention,  and  whether  the 


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442  The  Last  Martyr  of  the  Confessional 

priest  had  warned  him  that  desertion  was  the  deadliest  sin 
which  a  soldier  could  commit.  It  appears  the  wretched  lad,  in 
obedience  to  menaces  and  torture,  did  say  something  to  the 
effect  that  he  had  confessed  to  Father  Andreas  Faulhaber  his 
intention  to  fly  from  the  Prussian  colours,  and  that,  though  the 
priest  had  told  him  the  breach  of  the  military  oath  was  a  sin,  he 
did  not  dwell  much  upon  the  matter. 

This  was  enough  for  the  Prussianised  Huguenot.  Father 
Andreas  Faulhaber  was  arrested  on  the  charge  of  omitting  to 
do  his  utmost  to  prevent  the  desertion  of  the  king's  Catholic 
soldiers :  but  in  reply  to  every  question  of  the  drumhead  in- 
quisitors, the  priest  only  replied,  with  calm  dignity,  that  if  the 
soldier  accused  him  he  could  make  no  reply  ;  his  lips  were  bound 
by  the  seal  of  confession ;  but  that  he  could  say  that  never  to 
his  knowledge  had  he  exercised  the  sacred  rite  otherwise  than 
according  to  the  prescriptions  of  the  Catholic  and  Apostolic  Faith. 
The  soldier,  being  confronted  with  the  good  •priest,  now  retracted 
with  a  passion  of  tears  all  that  had  been  extracted  from  him  pre- 
viously, and  declared  that  nothing  had  happened  in  the  confes- 
sional that  could  cause  the  king  any  wrong.  The  priest  was  led 
into  the  prison  of  Glatz,  and  the  soldier  was  taken  back  for  further 
examination.  At  first  the  soldier  persisted  with  solemn  oaths  that 
he  had  no  accusation  to  bring  against  the  confessor,  and  he  begged 
that  a  magistrate  might  be  brought  to  take,  as  we  should  say,  his 
sworn  information  to  this  effect.  The  answer  of  Lieutenant- 
General  De  La  Motte  Fouqu6  was  to  send  the  miserable  deserter 
"  for  careful  examination "  by  a  special  officer,  and,  whatever 
were  the  means  employed  by  this  new  instrument  of  despotism,  the 
deserter  again  changed  his  testimony  and  said  that  Father  Andreas 
Faulhaber  knew  in  confession  of  his  intention  to  fly  from  the 
colours.  One  of  the  means  employed  to  obtain  this  fresh  repeti- 
tion of  the  accusation  was  afterwards  plain  to  be  seen.  The 
soldier,  instead  of  suffering  the  punishment  of  being  shot,  was 
allowed  to  return  to  his  duty  after  a  severe  whipping  with  sticks. 
In  any  case,  the  accusation  amounted  to  nothing.  There  was 
neither  court,  trial,  nor  evidence.  There  was  not  even  a  charge, 
for  even  the  poor  terrified  deserter  admitted  that  his  confessor  had 
told  him  that  desertion  was  a  sin ;  and  who  could  determine 
whether  or  not  the  priest  in  the  sanctity  of  his  office  had  im- 
pressed upon  the  intending  fugitive  the  enormity  of  his  crime 
as  it  might  appear  in  the  eyes  of  Frederick  of  Prussia? 

But  the  Prussian  king  had  long  wanted  a  pretext  for  striking 


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The  Last  Martyr  qf  the  Cotrfesmnal  443 

terror  into  the  Catholic  clergy  of  Silesia,  and  he  chose  to  consider 
the  miserable  accusation  tramped  up  against  the  good  priest  a 
sufficient  excuse  for  the  commission  of  the  requisite  murder.  On 
the  bleak  morning  of  the  30th  of  December,  1757,  Father  Andreas 
Faulhaber  was  suddenly  waked  up  from  his  broken  slumber  in  his 
•cell,  ordered  to  dress,  and  march  out  upon  the  parade  ground. 
The  priest  obeyed,  being  still  in  entire  ignorance  of  the  cause  of  the 
summons.  It  is  now  known  that  he  had  not  the  remotest  idea 
that  anything  more  serious  than  a  sentence  of  banishment  and 
imprisonment  could  possibly  be  in  question,  and  even  that  could 
not  last  long  in  face  of  his  evident  innocence  of  all  offence. 
Arrived  on  the  ground,  however,  the  Prussian  commander  briefly 
produced  a  note  from  Frederick  II.  himself,  containing  nothing 
but  the  following  words  of  atrocious  and  infernal  malice : — "  Hang 
up  the  Jesuit  Faulhaber,  but  let  him  not  have  a  confessor." 
(La&set  den  Jesuiten  Faulhaber  aufhaengen,  gelt  ihm  aber  keinen 
beichtvater). 

No  further  trial.  No  stay  of  sentence.  The  murder  must  be 
done  upon  the  spot.  A  beam  was  adjusted ;  a  rope  cast  round  the 
neck  of  the  priest,  who  never  for  an  instant  lost  his  confidence  in 
the  Almighty  for  whose  service  he  was  dying;  and  in  a  few 
minutes  the  soul  of  Father  Andreas  Faulhaber  had  passed  beyond 
the  reach  of  Prussian  kings  to  receive  the  reward  of  the  latest 
Martyr  of  the  Confessional. 

I  may  add,  that  Father  Andreas  was  not  a  Jesuit,  but  only  a 
simple  parish  clergyman,  and  the  epithet  of  "  Jesuit"  in  Frederick's 
warrant  of  murder  was  only  intended  to  express  the  infernal  venom 
•of  the  patron  of  Voltaire* 

*  This  sketch  appeared  some  months  ago  in  the  form  of  a  letter  to  Th* 
Nation.  It  will  interest  many  who  would  never  look  for  it  in  the  columns  of  ft 
newspaper — Ed.  J.  M. 


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A  SONNET  TO  OUJt  BLESSED  LADY. 

By  Victoria  Oolonwa. 

A  Maria,  Notira  Donna: 

y  ERG1NE  pura,  che  dai  nggi  ardenti 
'      Del  vero  boI  ti  godi  eterno  giorno, 
II  eai  bel  lume,  in  questo  Til  soggiorno, 
Tenne  i  begli  occhi  tuoi  paghi  e  content! ; 

Uomo  il  vedesti  e  Dio,  quando  i  lucenti 
Spirti  facean  1'albergo  umile  adomo 
Di  chiari  lumi,  e  timidi  d'intorno 
Stayano  lieti  al  grande  uffizio  intenti. 

Immortal  Dio,  nascosto  in  uman  vclo, 
L'adorasti  Signor,  Figlio  il  nutristi, 
L'amasti  Spoeo,  ed  onorasti  Padre : 

Prega  Lui,  dunque,  che  i  miei  giorni  triati 
Ritornin  lieti ;  e  tu,  Donna  del  Cielo, 
Vogli  in  questo  desio  mostrarti  madre. 

The  Samb  in  English. 

Virgin  most  pure,  who  never  knewest  night, 
Living  within  the  true  Sun's  deathless  day, 
The  golden  gleam  of  which,  through  all  thy  way, 
Made  glad  thy  beauteous  eyes,  with  joyous  light : 

With  thee  the  God- Man  dwelt,  when  angels  bright 
Lit  up  His  lowly  home  with  lustrous  ray, 
And,  filled  with  awe,  pleased  homage  sought  to  pay, 
Yearning  His  will  to  work,  be  what  it  might. 

Thou,  the  Eterne,  veiled  by  our  human  screen, 
As  Lord  didst  fear ;  didst  cherish  as  thy  Son ; 
Didst  love  as  Spouse ;  as  Father  didst  adore. 

Pray,  that  my  troubled  stream  of  life  may  run 

Back  to  its  happy  source ;  and,  Heaven's  great  Queen  ! 

Thy  Mother's  love  thus  show  me  evermore. 

W.  H.  E. 


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ABBE  MAO  CARBON. 
Br  the  Bxy,  Matthew  Bussjbli*  S.J. 

SOME  thirty  jean  ago  two  volumes  of  rather  flimsy  book-making 
were  published  by  Sir  Francis  Head  under  the  title  of  "A 
Fortnight  in  Ireland."  Out  of  his  Irish  fortnight  he  gave  one  day  to 
Maynooth,  his  account  of  whioh  was  racily  discussed  by  Dr.  Patrick 
Murray,  in  the  Introduction  to  the  fourth  volume  of  his  "  Irish 
Annual  Miscellany,"  otherwise  known  as  "  Essays  chiefly  Theologi- 
cal." This  part  of  the  Introduction  figures  in  the  table  of  contents 
as  "  Phrenology  of  Head's  head."  What  puts  this  matter  into  my 
head  at  present,  is  the  remark  which  winds  up  the  lively  baronet's 
description  of  the  College  cemetery.  With  some  justice  he  complained 
of  the  condition  in  whioh  it  was  at  the  time,  for  it  had  not  yet  been 
adorned  by  the  pious  care  of  one  whose  remains  now  lie  under  a 
Celtic  cross  within  that  sacred  enclosure.  After  expressing  his  wonder 
at  the  omission  (since  supplied)  of  the  names  of  the  students  who  die 
during  their  college  course  and  are  buried  there,  Sir  Francis  ended  by 
exclaiming :  "  Yet,  after  all,  what  inscription  could  be  placed  over  one 
of  these  young  men  except  this — '  Here  lies  an  ecclesiastical  flower 
that  never  bloomed/  " 

This  epitaph  might  be  applied  to  those  also  who  are  cut  off  a  little 
later  in  their  course,  after  they  have  just  begun  the  work  of  the  priest- 
hood. There  is  a  certain  pathos  in  this  sudden  ending  of  a  career ; 
and  the  pathos  is  not  diminished  but  increased  when  the  career  has 
been  fairly  begun.  TJie  death  of  a  young  student  is  a  domestio 
event,  causing  grief  in  a  limited  family  circle ;  a  wider  circle,  and 
even  the  Church  herself,  mourns  for  the  death  of  a  young  priest. 

The  priest  whose  name  is  placed  above  these  pages,  was  allowed  to 
work  longer  for  souls  than  perhaps  these  introductory  remarks  imply. 
That  name  will  be  known  to  only  a  very  few  readers.  Some  will 
think,  perhaps,  of  Archdeacon  M'Carron  who  preached  the  funeral 
sermon  over  Dr.  Edward  Maginn  of  Deny,  preserved  in  "  The  Catho- 
lic Pulpit;"  and  others  may  be  reminded  of  the  Abbe  Oarron 
who  wrote  so  many  edifying  little  biographies  in  French.  But  our 
Abbi  Mao  Oarron  owes  his  French  title  only  to  the  circumstanoe  of 
his  having  joined  a  French  missionary  congregation. 

James  Mao  Oarron  was  born  on  the  25th  of  April,  1843,  in 
Glaslough-street,  Monaghan,  where  his  parents  still  live.  He  was 
from  the  first  a  singularly  pious  child,  and  his  ecclesiastical  vocation 
showed  itself  at  a  very  early  age.    "  Almost  from  the  time  he  could 

Vol.,  xnr.  No.  158.  33 

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44*  -44W  Woe  .Carrot 

speak,  lie  used  to  say  he  -would  be  a  priest*"  He  was  a  special 
favourite  with  his  venerable  bishop,  Dr.  Charles  ICNally,  whose  Mass 
he  was  privileged  to  serve  for  many  years.  After  some  years'  attend- 
ance on  the  classes  in  the  Monaghan  Diocesan  Seminary,  he  was  sent 
to  the  Irish  College  at  Paris ;  but  in  a  year  or  two  he  entered  the 
Seminary  of  Foreign  Missions  in  the  Rue  du  Bac,  one  of  the  noblest 
and  most  ancient  Catholic  institutions  in  that  city  of  marvellous  con- 
trasts. This  choice  was  practically  to  pronounce  against  himself  a 
sentence  of  perpetual  banishment  from  Ireland.  He  was  an  ardent 
lover  of  his  native  land,  and  we  can  imagine  how  keenly,  even  in  his 
first  temporary  exile,  he  felt  that  home-sickness  which  is  sure  to  attack 
the  young  Irish  heart  under  such  circumstances;  but  now  he  was 
cutting  off  all  hope  of  returning,  especially  as  he  was  the  only 
Irishman  in  the  Congregation,  and  his  foreign  missionary  career  would 
thus  be  likely  to  associate  him  with  those  wfco  were  different  from 
himself  in  character,  customs,  and  language.  Surely  all  this  must, 
especially  in  the  anticipation,  have  added  immensely  to  his  sacrifice. 

He  was  ordained  priest  in  1866»  and  India  was  appointed  to  be 
the  scene  of  his  priestly  toils.  When  the  time  came  for  the  young 
Irishman's  departure  from  the  Hue  du  Bac,  he  was  one  of  the  heroes 
of  a  celebration  which  has  had  the  good  fortune  to  be  described  by 
the  pen  of  Louis  Veuillot.  The  first  chapter  of  the  twelfth  book  of 
Ca  et  La  is  so  closely  connected  with  the  subject  of  this  paper  that  I 
shall  try  to  translate  it,  with  some  omissions. 

"  Paris,  the  city  of  giddy  contrasts,  the  University  of  the  Seven 
Deadly  Sins,  contains  also  colleges  of  apostles  and  seminaries  of 
martyrs.  Amidst  this  chaos  of  houses  where  only  blasphemy  remem- 
bers God,  in  the  middle  of  these  schools  of  business,  ambition,  and 
pleasure,  Paris  includes  houses  of  missionaries,  schools  of  the 
Catholic  apostleship,  where  the  science  that  is  taught  is  how  to  die  for 
the  name,  for  the  glory,  and  for  the  love  of  God.  I  say  to  die,  and  I 
say  too  little :  for  there  is  not  question  of  giving  one's  life  once  only, 
or  even  of  exposing  it  for  a  time  to  the  chances  of  a  war  which  must 
come  to  an  end.  What  the  missionary  learns  is  the  art  of  dying  to 
all  things,  at  all  times,  and  always.  He  dies  first  to  his  family  accord- 
ing to  the  flesh — he  leaves  them,  he  belongs  to  them  no  longer,  and, 
probably,  he  will  never  see  them  again.  Then  he  dies  to  his  brethren 
according  to  the  spirit ;  he  will  leave  also  this  second  home,  and  in  all 
likelihood  to  enter  it  no  more.  Again,  he  dies  to  his  country ;  he  will 
go  to  a  distant  land  where  neither  skies,  nor  soil,  nor  language,  nor 
customs,  will  recall  the  land  of  his  birth ;  where  man  himself  very 
often  has  nothing  in  common  with  the  men  he  has  known  except  the 
grossest  vices,  and  the  most  crushing  miseries.  And  when  these  three 
separations  are  accomplished,  when  these  three  deaths  are  consummated, 
there  is  another  death  which  the  missionary  must  endure  and  which 

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««an&o$  be  ilnished  with  one  blow,  "but  murt  be  'the  work'  of  every 
instant  of  his  life,  up  to  the  last  hour  of  his  kst  day:  he  must  die  to. 
himself,  not  only  to  all  the  needs  of  the  body  but  to  all  the  ordinary 
-necessaries  of  heart  and  mind.  And  at  the  end,  contriving  to  die  more 
utterly  in  death  itself,  he  deprives  himself  even  of  a  grave.  For  the 
missionary  cannot  expect  always  to  be  buried  in  a  cemetery,  the  last 
asylum  in  consecrated  ground.* 

"  Who  will  explain  to  us  why  there  are  always  found  men  eager  to 
waste  themselves  away  in  those  obscure  and  painful  toils  ?  Ah !  it  is 
heaven's  secret,  and  the  noblest  mystery  of  the  human  soul.  To  the 
end  there  will  be  men  of  sacrifice,  illumined  with  a  divine  brightness, 
who,  with  their  eyes  turned  towards  Jesus,  will  know  perfectly  what 
the  crowd  can  hardly  understand.  In  himine  tuo  videbimus  lumen ;  in  the 
light  of  God  they  see  the  joys  of  such  a  life  of  immolation  for  God's 
sake ;  they  seek  those  joys,  they  taste  them,  they  long  to  feast  upon 
them ;  the  world  has  no  flowery  chains  that  can  hinder  them  from 
rushing  into  these  glorious  fetters. 

"  On  the  morrow  of  Calvary,  while  the  Jews  were  stoning  the 
first  confessor  of  the  faith,  he  with  face  all  radiant  cried  out :  '  I  see 
the  heavens  opened  and  the  Son  of  Man  standing  at  the  right  hand  of 
God.'  Let  us  search  no  further ;  the  attraction  of  the  apostolic  life 
is  there.  From  the  dungeon,  at  the  stake,  in  lonely  deserts, 
amidst  the  perils  of  the  sea,  this  is  for  the  missionary  consolation  and 
strength :   Video  coelos  apertos  *  Jetum  etanUm  a  deztris  Dei. 

"  This  is  the  reason  why  there  are  schools  of  martyrs  in  Paris 
itself  and  why  they  are  filled. 

*'  Let  us  enter  one  of  these  houses.  Founded  two  hundred  years  ago, 
the  Seminary  of  the  Foreign  Missions,  shut  up  by  the  Revolution, 
has  risen  again  more  flourishing  than  ever.  The  walls  have  been 
rebuilt,  the  garden  is  full  of  flowers,  there  is  no  cell  empty.  Two 
inexhaustible  springs  are  opened  here :  one  is  the  chapel,  the  humble 
temple  of  the  living  God,  where  on  each  day  is  immolated  the  Victim 
who  takes  away  the  sins  of  the  world ;  the  other  is  the  Hall  of 
Martyrs,  in  which  are  kept  the  relics  of  those  members  of  the  com- 
munity who  have  confessed  God  with  the  loss  of  life.  Here  are  the 
swords  which  struck  them,  the  chains  which  they  bore,  the  oords  and 
whips  which  tore  their  flesh,  the  linen  stained  with  their  blood,  some 
fragments  of  their  sacred  banes.0 

The  strange  treasures  of  this  Hall  of  Martyrs  were  once  exhibited 
to  the  writer  of  the  present  sketch  by  the  subject  of  it,  from  whom 
Louis  Yeuillot  has,  perhaps,  detained  us  too  long.  But  his  chapter  on 
"  Les  nobles  Chevaliers  de  Dieu "  was  inspired  by  the  vocation  to 

•  Exemplified  touchingly  in  our  Father  Augustus  Law,  whose  death  is  described 
in  an  earlier  page  of  this  number.  Brother  Hedley  could  not,  even  at  the  time,  know 
the  spot  of  that  wild  heathen  land  where  thenatiyes  had  buried  him. 


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4ft  jmXmCanm* 


i* 


j#**Mm*tfm*wm*wmom*  those  ^MWt  Knfchta  tf  Qe»V 
A^tiMrefar^winayoflMfc^  et  Js^thsAss 

teia.sesmintwfatsh  otnr  yoang  Missionary  »  Ub  tan  took: 
Thsi  brLlliei*  Jesjsnalist  «*  pnmt  0*  Aft  mmma*  tfth* 
•I  Umt  young*  priests  from  the  FEweiianj  el  th* 
Missions ;  and  he  gives  this  account  of  thai " 

tLlk  is  eigh*  o?doek  ki  the  summer  evening*  The*  oammmiity 
gather  round  a  statue  of  the  Blessed  Virgin  in  the*  garden,  singing 
Aft  Magnificat.  listen: Beaton*  me  dicent  onmot  genmvHone*.  Inthi* 
solemn  moment  with  what  happiness  this  word  must  fill  these- souls 
that  are  called  to  oarry  to  the  ends  of  the  earth  the  name  and  tha  glory 
of  Mary,  that  all  generations  may  proclaim  her  blessed !  There  they 
are,  standing  as  if  already  on  the  road,  these  good  angels  of  the  truth, 
charged  with  God's  mercy,  and  going  to  the  nations  that  sleep  in  the* 
shadow  of  death,  to  give  them  Mary  and  Jesus.  Esurient*  implevifi 
bonis! 

"After  the  Magnificat  and  the  Aye  Mari*  Stella  they  leave  the 
garden,  their  place  of  relaxation  and  rest,  where  they  have  spent  a  few 
short  yeans  in  their  apprenticeship  for  a  life  which  will  have  no  more 
relaxation  or  rest.  They  go  to  the  chapel.  The  narrow  precincts  are? 
crowded.  No  pomp,  no  brilliant  decoration  of  the  altar,  all  apostoHoai 
poverty.  No  magnificence  either  in  the  little  crowd  that  has  assembled. 
The  friend*  sad  relatives  of  missionaries  hardly  belong  to  the  great 
world.  The  ordinary  Night  Prayers  are  said,  so.  simple,  always 
sublime,  with  sudden  flashes  of  light  breaking  out  through  them  now. 
They  praff  for  benefactors,  enemies,  the  poor*  the  afflicted,  prisoners* 
tiwceti&re,  the  sSek,  the  dying,  and  all  who  are  in  distress  and  soorow 
—•and  then  they  pray  for  the  dead.  Examination  el  conscience  JoIIowb. 
Qh!  the  nobility  of  the  Christian  life ! 

"  After  prayer  the  points  for  meditation  in  the  morning  are  drawn 
from  the  Gospel  of  the  following  day.  By  chanee  *  this  Gospel  is  the 
parable  of  the  labourers  whom  the  master  send*  into  his  vineyard ; 
It*  et  ws  in  vineam  tneam—u  Go  into:  my  vineyard."  For  eighteen 
hundred  years  this  word  has  sent  forth  the  heralds  of  the  Gospel  oven 
aU  the  pathways  of  the  earth,  and  everywhere  they  havephsnted  the 
Divine  tree  whieh  nourishes  unto  life  everlastings 

"  When  the  prayers  are  over,  the  ceremony  el  le*ce*tahing  begins* 
The  Superior  makes  a  short  address  to  the  young  Missionaries  who 

*  VL  Teuillot  is  probably  mistaken  boner  for  m  the  Vie  ds  TMoptim*  Vwnard 
(who  wti  martyred  ni  Tonkin,  in  1861),  we  are  told  that  on  these  opeaeionas  apeeial 
meditation  ig  read  for  the  next  morning,  such  as  the  departing  missionaries  may  carry 
away  with  them— the  Gospel  of  the  Good  Shepherd  who  gfres  his  life,  for  hit  sheep, 
or  the  parable  of  the  labourers  in  the  vineyard,  or  our  Lord's  oomplsint  about  tha 
harrest  being  great  and  the  labourers  few. 


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Abbi  MmCarron.  449 

stand  before  the  altar,  nappy  victims— the  eldest  aged  twenty-five 
years — four  youths  destined  for  the  most  dangerous  Missions  of  China 
-and  the  Corea.  Whilst  the  choir  sings  those  beautiful  words, 
which  belong  both  to  the  Old  and  to  the  New  Law,  and  which  St 
Paul  the  Apostle  of  the  Gentiles  took  from  the  Prophets  Isaiah 
and  Nahum :  Qucm  tpeciosi  pedes  evangdizantium  pacem,  evangdi- 
xantium  bona — all  who  are  present  come  forward  to  kiss  on  their 
knees  these  happy  feet  that  are  to  bear  afar  the  good  tidings  of 
the  Lord." 

Only  from  Louis  Veuiflot,  and  only  from  a  book  of  his  which 
is  untranslated  and  untranslatable,  would  I  borrow  so  many  pages, 
though  all  of  these  bear  directly  on  the  present  subject,  since  James 
M'Oarron  was  probably  a  sharer  in  this  very  soene,  and  certainly 
took  part  in  a  similar  scene  in  his  turn.  The  mission,  however, 
to  which  he  was  assigned,  afforded  less  chance  of  martyrdom  than 
Tonkin  or  Cochin  China,  but  full  scope  for  privations  and  sacri- 
fices. The  language  which  he  spoke  could  be  turned  to  the  best 
account  in  British  India.  English  is  certainly  a  powerful  agent  in 
the  affairs  of  this  world  for  good  and  for  evil ;  and  an  infusion  of 
the  Irish  ascent  renders  it  still  more  potent,  thank  God,  as  a  means  of 
spreading  the  faith  and  keeping  the  faith  alive  in  many  lands.  With 
all  due  respect  to  the  G©Ko  Union,  it  seems  providential  that  the 
language  of  Shakspere  is  not  monopolised  by  the  co-religionists  of 
Henry  the  Eighth  and  "Oliver  Cromwell. 

(ft  he  continued.) 


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THE  HEART  OF  A  MOTHER. 

YOU  were  so  far  away, 
Beyond  all  help  from  me, 
And  so  when  skies  were  grey. 

Or  clouds  lowered  threateningly, 
And  the  wailing  storm-wind  blew, 
My  heart  went  out  to  you. 

I  always  felt  afraid 

You  were  out  in  the  stormy  weather  r 
The  rain  on  your  bonny  head, 

The  wind  and  the  ram  together. 
Ah  me !  I  never  knew 
What  harm  might  come  to  you. 

So  many  pains  there  are 

And  perils  by  land  and  sea ; 
And  each  his  cross  must  bear, 

And  each  his  weird  must  dree; 
And  it  might  be  even  then 
You  lived  your  hour  of  pain. 

My  fears  were  unavailing, 

You  are  so  safe  for  aye — 
My  dear  who  went  a-eailing 

On  Death's  wide  sea  one  day ; 
You  answer  not  my  call 
Across  the  grey  sea-wall. 

I  follow,  with  wet  eyes, 
Your  boat's  long  lonely  track, 

But  vex  you  not  with  sighs 
Nor  long  that  you  were  back  y 

Your  boat  with  sails  of  snow 

Came  safe  to  port,  1  know. 

O,  is  the  new  land  fair 

That  you  have  journeyed  to, 
With  floods  of  amber  air 

And  hills  of  marvellous  hue, 
And  a  city's  shining  spires 
Fashioned  of  day-dawn's  fires  P 

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2B«  .£?«»•<  iff  a  Mother.  451  \  \ 


ft 


Of  is  it  a  pleasant  country 

That  you  are  come  unto 
With  leaves  on  the  greenwood  tree, 

And  birds  above  in  the  blue, 
And  shades  below  the  trees  *  \l 

Where  the  weary  dream  at  ease,  " 

>i 

And  little  children  playing  W 

On  a  green  and  golden  mead,  fl 

And  One  o'er  the  green  sward  straying  | 

Whose  face  I  know  indeed,-* 

The  dead  face  on  the  rood, 

The  dear  face,  land  and  good  ? 

0,  safe  for  evermore, 

With  never  a  weird  to  dree ; 
Is  any  burden  sore 

When  one's  beloved  goes  free  P 
Come  pain,  come  woe  to  me, 
My  well-beloved  goes  free  1 

You  are  so  far  away, 

And  yet  are  come  so  near ; 
On  many  a  heavy  day 

I  think  of  you,  my  dear, 
Safe  in  your  shelter  there, 
Christ's  hand  upon  your  hair 

Eathabinb  Tynan. 


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NEW  BOOKS. 

Mb.  John  J.  Piatt's  cf  Idylls  and  Lyric*  of  the  Ohio  Valley  "  (London, 
Xegan  Paul,  Trench  and  Co.),  has  been  received  with  deservedly  high 
praise  in  many  high  quarters.  The  poems  in  this  handsome  volume  are 
very  beautiful,  possessing  as  a  marked  quality  a  certain  manliness,  an 
open-air  freshness,  at  once  characteristic  of  the  man's  heart,  and  of 
the  robust  young  race  of  the  New  "World,  which  claims  him  as  a  son. 
The  warm  feeling  for  Nature,  the  keen  and  loving  observation  which 
marks  her  in  all  her  phases  are  well  displayed  in  such  picturesquely 
beautiful  poems  as  "  New  Grass  " — "  Sundown  " — and  "  Transfigura- 
tion "—with  their  strength  of  Word-painting.  Such  poems  as  "  The 
Mower  in  Ohio  "  and  "  The  Pioneer's  Chimney  *■ — the  latter,  with  its 
keenness  of  sympathy  for  a  dead-and-gone  type— show  Mr.  Piatt  in 
the  vein  which  is  peculiarly  his  own.  His  freshness  and  strength 
are  like  a  cool  breeze  after  the  dreary  Gospel  of  "  Cui  bono  P"  which 
is  the  key-note  of  so  much  modern  English  song ;  it  is  a  breeze  from 
his  Western  woods,  with  a  cool  odour  of  pines  and  resinous  trees,  and 
sometimes  the  poetry  has  the  glow  and  colour  of  those  woods  when 
they  are  on  fire  in  their  glorious  Indian  summer.  The  book  is 
masculine  in  the  best  meaning  of  the  word,  the  ripe  and  healthy  fruit 
of  a  man's  heart  and  a  man's  intellect — K.T« 

We  deem  it  right  to  give  the  volume  just  introduced  to  our  readers 
the  advantage  of  being  linked  with  the  other  delightful  volumes  which 
were  made  the  subject  of  a  separate  notice  in  our  pages  last  month. 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Piatt  are  both  genuine  poets,  genuine  enough  to  smile, 
we  are  sure,  at  any  allusion  to  the  similar  union  of  Aurora  Leigh  and 
Paracelsus.  Our  criticism  on  Mrs.  Piatt  is  thus  referred  to  by  a  writer 
in  The  Weekly  Register  of  July  3,  whose  personality  even  these  few 
chance  words  will  betray  to  some  careful  readers : — 

"  In  the  Irish  Monthly  there  are,  among  other  good  matter,  a 
gay  and  charmingly  fanciful  story  by  Miss  Eosa  Mulholland,  and  a 
review  of  Mrs.  Piatt's  poems,  which  will  make  the  reader  acquainted 
with  some  very  exquisite  verse — unmistakable  poetry,  made  poignant 
with  the  feeling  of  motherhood: 

Sweet,  sweet  ?    My  child,  tome  tweeter  word  than  sweet, 

Some  lorelier  word  then  loTe,  I  want  for  yon. 
Who  lays  the  world  is  bitter,  while  your  feet 

Are  left  among  the  lilies  and  the  dew  ? 

...  Ah  ?    So  some  other  has,  this  night,  to  fold 

Such  hands  as  his,  and  drop  some  precious  head 
From  off  her  breast  as  full  of  baby-gold. 

I,  for  her  grief,  will  not  be  oomforted. 


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11  women  would  oftener,  like  this  sweet  singer,  take  the  subjects  of 
their  song  from  the  story  of  their  own  thoughts,  we  eheuld  learn  more 
of  the  martyrdom  of  motherhood— motherhood  which  eannot  be  com* 
£ orted  because  Nero  was  onoe  a  dear  child,  and  because  the  mother 
of  Dives  cannot  cool  his  tongue  in  his  torment  Maternity  has  no 
happiness  to  mitigate  the  intolerable  thought" 

Miss  Margaret  Jordan's  little  volume,  " Echoes  from  the  Pines" 
(M'Gowran  and  Young,  Portland,  Maine,  U.S.  A.),  has  muoh  to  recom- 
mend it  to  the  average  reader  and  to  merit  praise.  It  is  full  of 
fervent  religious  feeling,  and  the  poems  are  marked  by  purity  of 
thought  and  simplicity  of  treatment.  Among  the  best  things  in  the 
book  are  "  O  Jesu  Mi,"  and  the  poems  on  8,  Mary  Magdalene,  and  the 
lines  on  Longfellow  are  very  musical,  a  quality  which  Miss  Jordan's 
work  does  not  always  possess.  Without  being  of  a  high  order,  we 
have  no  doubt  the  poems  will  help  and  satisfy  many  fervent  and  simple 
hearts.— K.T. 

Miss  Ella  M'Mahon  has  translated  the  fourth  series  of  the  famous 
"  Golden  Sands ;  or,  Little  Counsels  for  the  Banctifioation  and 
Happiness  of  Daily  Life "  (New  York :  Benziger).  She  translates 
well,  and  the  book  1b  worth  translating. 

A  quaint  and  very  tiny  quarto,  with  the  not  very  happy  title  of 
"Flashes  of  Fancy/'  contains  some  thirty  poems  by  the  author  of 
"  life  as  we  Live  it."  The  thoughts  are  often  good  and  earnest,  and 
the  form  is  for  the  most  part  correct  The  author  in  one  poem  takes 
the  liberty  of  tutting  off  the  first  syllable  of  eternal  and  of  dytian. 
A  strange  elision  that !  But  we  notice  no  other  fault  of  this  kind. 
Correct  taste  is  generally  apparent,  if  not  inspiration. 

The  newest  volume  of  the  O'Gonnell  Press  Popular  Library  is 
41  Gerald  Griffin's  Poems "—  a  hundred  and  fifty  well  printed  pages 
for  three  pence.  We  cannot  find  in  it  the  beautiful  sonnet  to  the 
Blessed  Virgin,  "  As  the  mute  nightingale  in  closest  grove."  As  in 
every  volume  of  "  complete  poetical  works,"  we  could  wish  it  to  be  less 
•complete  by  the  omission  of  a  few  on  which  profane  eyes  may  fall  to 
the  prejudice  of  the  really  beautiful  things.  The  author  of  "  The 
Oollegiaas"  was  a  pure  and  true  poet,  best  at  a  simple,  pensive 
lyric 

The  Rev*  D*  Ghisholm  continues  hiB  excellent  enterprise  of 
supplying  pious  anecdotes  and  very  short  stories  taat  the  instruction  of 
children.  His  "  Catechism  in  Examples,"  after  devoting  twelve  penny 
numbers  to  the  "Virtue  of  Faith,"  has  now  began  the  subject  of 
*'  Hope."    Cateohists  will  find  the  collection  a  real  treasury. 

"The  Clothes  of  Religion,"  by  Wilfrid  Ward  (Burns  and  Oatea, 
London  and  New  York),  is  an  elegant  little  volume,  of  an  interest  and 
value  muoh  beyond  its  sice  and  beyond  its  subject  The  younger 
JEtaine  went  too  far  in  his  humility  when  he  addressed  himself  as 


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4$4  Note*,  on  Jfew  JBook**. 

tfOta  incoiinu  d'un  si^orietix  pJw;  "anoVMr.  Wilfrid  ^^.cs^no- 
longer  apply  the  line  tQ  himself  either.  He  may  never  eqWth^ 
intellectual  renown  of  William  George  Ward*  the  author ©f  ''The* 
Ideal  of  a  Christian  Church,"  Mid  the  doughty  champion  of  Cathplic- 
Philosophy  in  The  JhtbUn  Eevtsw,  which  he  almost  alone  supported  for 
many  years ;  but,  young  as  he  is,  he  has  already  proved  himself  the 
worthy  son  of  suoh  a  father.  He  has  evidently  made  a  special  study 
of  some  of  the  contemporary  phases  of  so-oalled  philosophy,  and  his 
controversial  style  is  anything  but  dull.  Our  readers,  thank  God,  do- 
not  need,  any  refutation  of  the  fantastic  errors  which  are  here  dealt 
with.  Their  feelings  with  regard  to  them  have  been  admirably 
expressed  by  Cardinal  Newman  in  the  following  letter : 

Mr  dkab  Wilfrid  Ward,— Thank  you  for  your  letter,  which  was  rery  accept- 
able to  me.  I  hare  read  your  article  with  great  interest,  and  like  it  much ;  but  my 
brain  work  so  slowly  and  my  fingers  are  so  stiff,  that  writing  is  a  difficulty  and  atrinl 
to  me.  I  should  say  that  the  theories  of  Mr.  Spencer  and  Mr.  Harrison  haye  such 
hearing  and  acceptance  from  the  public  as  to  need  an  answer,  and  that  your  answer  to- 
them  is  unanswerable.  But  in  saying  this  I  am  not  paying  you  so  great  a  compliment  as 
it  appears  to  be  at  first  sight ;  for  I  say  so  from  the  impatience  I  feel  at  able  men 
daring  to  put  out  for  our  acceptance  theories  so  hollow  and  absurd.  I  do  not  know 
how  to  believe  that  they  are  in  earnest,  or  that  they  preach  the  Unknowable  and 
Humanity  except  as  stop-gaps,  while  they  are  in  suspense  and  on  the  look-out  for  the 
new  objects  of  worship  which  Sir  James  Stephen  thinks  unnecessary  as  well  as 
impossible.  I,  then,  am  too  impatient  to  refute  carefully  such  theorists.  If  it  was  to- 
be  done,  it  required  to  be  done  with  both  good  humour  and  humour,  as  you  have  done 
it  You  have  been  especially  happy  in  your  use  of  Mr.  Pickwick,  but  this  is  only  one- 
specimen  of  what  is  so  excellent  in  your  artiole.    It  tires  me  to  write  more. 

Very  sincerely  yours, 

J.  H.  Card.  Newman. 

The  pastor  of  Monasterevan  comes  under  the  benediction  which 
the  Wise  Man  promises  to  the  just  "  The  Lord  has  completed  his 
labours,"  so  far  as  regards  the  publication  of  his  "  Collections 
Relating  to  the  Dioceses  of  Kildare  and  Leighlin"  (Dublin:  James 
Duffy  and  Sons).  The  third  and  concluding  volume,  which  is  devoted 
to  the  Diocese  of  Leighlin,  has  just  appeared.  It  is  a  large  octavo 
volume  of  more  than  four  hundred  pages,  with  several  illustrations  of 
old  churches  and  Celtic  crosses.  The  publication  of  three  such  tomes 
is  a  very  serious  undertaking,  especially  when  not  the  great  reading 
publio  but  a  limited  circle  of  readers  is  addressed.  Those  whom  it 
concerns  are  all  the  more  bound  to  show  their  interest  practically. 
Father  Gomerford  has  discharged  well  his  office  of  historian  of  his 
native  diocese,  and  shown  himself  a  worthy  Member  of  the  Royal 
Irish  Academy.  Almost  every  page  of  this  work  must  represent  long 
and  difficult  researches,  dealing  as  each  page  does  with  the  history  of 
various  churches  and  parishes,  the  succession  of  pastors,  with  minute 
particulars  about  each,  and  a  vast  quantity  of  illustrative  matter* 


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inost  df  Which  ©ould  otily  be  gathered  in  otit^-th^ay^plfec^.  We 
trust  that  Father  Comerford^s  example  wiD  be  folio  wed  by  priests  of 
other  Irish  dioceses. '  Cogan's  Ifeath,  and  LaTert/s  2>em>«  arid  Oonntiri 
and  now  Comerford's  Kildare  and  Zeighlvn—does  this  exhaust  our  list 
of  Catholic  diocesan  histories  f  As  a  help  to  future  historians,  the 
records  of  parishes  and  dioceses  ought  to  be  kept  systematically- 
What  seems  of  little  interest  to  us  at  present  -will  be  of  great  interest 
to  those  who  come  after  us.  Many  interesting  traditions  and  valuable 
facts  and  documents  perish  year  by  year.  As  many  as  possible  of 
these  ought  to  be  got  into  print,  and  first  of  all  into  writing.  Father 
Comerford's  "  Collections "  afford  in  many  respects  an  excellent 
model.  They  must  be  of  rare  interest  to  the  natives  of  the  diocese,, 
since  the  ordinary  reader  finds  them  instructive  and  entertaining. 

In  his  preface  to  "  King,  Prophet,  and  Priest ;  or,  Lectures  on  the- 
Catholic  Church  "  (Burns  and  Oates),  the  Rev.  Herbert  0.  Duke  says. 
very  truly,  that  "  a  new  book  may  drift  into  the  hands  of  some  who, 
for  one  reason  or  another,  have  not  read  other  works,  immeasurably 
superior,  on  the  same  subject."  But  this  new  book  has  very  solid 
merits  of  its  own,  and  condenses  the  substance  of  many  of  the  most 
recent  authorities  on  some  of  the  subjects  connected  with  the  constitu- 
tion and  mission  of  the  Church.  The  study  of  these  well  planned,  well 
written,  and  well  printed  pages  will,  we  trust,  enlighten  many  who* 
are  without,  and  confirm  the  faith  of  many  who  are  within.  We  have- 
alluded  to  the  printing,  that  we  might  express  our  wonder  at  such  an 
excellent  specimen  of  typography  bearing  the  imprint  of  Leeds.. 
Altogether  we  rank  this  book  much  higher  than  many  a  work  of 
greater  pretensions. 

Messrs.  M.  H.  Gill  and  Son  axe  publishing  Moore's  Irish  Melodies- 
with  pianoforte  accompaniments,  in  five  Parts,  each  complete  in  itself*. 
The  first  Part  gives  for  sixpence  the  music  and  words  of  some  twenty* 
five  of  the  most  beautiful  of  these  Melodies,  which  will  be  sung  for 
centuries  after  Moore's  detractors  are  forgotten. 

Three- volume  novels,  which  practically  can  be  procured  only  from, 
lending  libraries  (ox  circulating  libraries,  as  they  curiously  prefer  to- 
call  themselves),  hardly  come  within  the  range  of  our  critical  jurisdic- 
tion. But  an  exception  must  be  made  in  favour  of  "  The  Chronicles  of. 
Castle  Cloyne,"  by  M.  W.  Brew  (London :  Chapman  and  Hall).  When, 
a  tale  devoted  to  the  delineation  of  Irish  character  and  the  description 
of  Irish  scenes  is  honoured  with  long  eulogistic  reviews  in  The  Times,. 
The  Standard,  The  Morning  Post,  The  Scotsman,  and  many  other  journals 
of  the  sort,  we  are  by  no  means  inclined  to  look  upon  it  with  favour,, 
but  rather  to  expect  distorted  views  of  Ireland,  her  past,  her  present, 
and  her  future,  and  notions  of  Irish  social  life  as  outrageously  unreal 
as  the  pretended  imitation  of  the  Irish  peculiarities  of  diction  and 
pronunciation,  which  are  facetiously  styled  "the  brogue."    Yet  Miss. 


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-45*  lfoieto*lTew$eokL 

Brew's  -'Chronicles  of  Cattle  Cleyne"  has  received  these  perilous 
^oommandatioM,  and,  nevertheless,  is  an  excellent  Irish  tale,  full  of 
truth  and  sympathy,  without  any  faaassk  cferieataring  on  the  one  hand , 
-or  any  patronising  sentimentality  on  the  other.  The  heroine,  Oonagh 
M 'Dennett,  the  Dillons,  Pat  Flanagan,  and  Father  Rafferty,  are  the 
principal  personages,  aU  excellent  portraits  in  their  way ;  and  some  of 
the  minor  characters  are  very  happily  drawn.  The  conversation  of 
the  humbler  people  is  full  of  wit  and  common  sense-;  and  the  changes 
of  the  story  give  room  for  pathos  sometimes  as  a  contrast  to  the 
humour  which  predominates.  Miss  Brew  understands  well  the  Irish 
heart  and  language :  and  altogether  her  "  Pictures  of  Minister  life  " 
^f or  this  is  the  second  title  of  the  tale)  is  one  of  the  most  satisfactory 
additions  to  the  store  of  Irish  fiction  from  Castit  Rackrent  to  Marcdla 
*Ghraoe» 

Father  Joseph  FarrelTs  Sermons  have  just  been  published  in  a 
finely-printed  volume  of  five  hundred  pages,  by  Messrs.  M.  H.  Gill 
and  Son.  There  are  discourses  for  all  the  Sundays  of  the  year,  with 
very  few  exceptions,  and  for  several  of  the  chief  festivals.  We 
have  not  yet  been  able  to  bestow  on  this  volume  the  loving  study  it 
•deserves ;  but  <a  slight  examination  is  enough  to  show  that  it  is  worthy 
even  of  the  author  of  "  The  Lectures  of  a  Certain  Professor." 

The  Boston  Stylus  comes  to  us  acrosB  the  Atlantic  with  edifying 
regularity,  printed  on  glossy  paper  of  almost  the  largest  possible  size. 
Is  not  this  an  unwieldy  form  ?  It  is  a  thoroughly  honest,  college 
magazine,  written  for  boys  by  the  boys  themselves.  It  must  be  full 
of  interest  far  its  own  little  world:  so  editorial  fogeys  need  notobtrmde 
their  critical  remarks. 

"  The  Flower  of  Holy  well,"  a  drama  in  &w  acts,  founded  on  the 
life  of  St.  Winefride,  the  Virgin  Martyr  of  North  Wales,"  by  Mary 
JBliaabeth  Williams  (Dublin :  M.  H.  Oill  and  Son)  has  the  good  sense 
not  to  attempt  blank  verse,  but  is  written  in  what  may  be  called 
theatrical  prose.  Even*  very  meritorious  plays  seem  very  frigid  when 
-road  in  oeld  blood  without  any  dramatic  accessories. 


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(    457    ) 


THE  HAUNTED  ORGANIST  OF  HURLY  BURLY. 

BY   ROSA  MULHOLLAND, 

AUTHOa  OV  "  VAGRANT  TRRSn,"  "  XILLMVY,"  "XAECELLA  QRACB,"  ETC.,  STC. 

rERE  had  been  a  thunderstorm  in  the  Tillage  of  Hurly 
Burly.  Every  door  was  shut,  every  dog  in  his  kennel,  every 
rut  and  gutter  a  flowing  river  after  the  deluge  of  rain  that  had 
fallen.  Up  at  the  great  house,  a  mile  from  the  town,  the  rooks 
were  calling  to  one  another  about  the  fright  they  had  been  in,  the 
fawns  in  the  deerpark  were  venturing  their  timid  heads  from 
behind  the  trunks  of  trees,  and  the  old  woman  at  the  gate-lodge 
had  risen  from  her  knees,  and  was  putting  back  her  prayer-book 
on  the  shelf.  In  the  garden,  July  roses,  unwieldy  with  their  full- 
blown richness,  and  saturated  with  rain,  hung  their  heads  heavily 
to  the  earth ;  others,  already  fallen,  lay  flat  upon  their  blooming 
faces  on  the  path,  where  Bess,  Mistress  Hurly's  maid,  would  find 
them,  when  going  on  her  morning  quest  of  rose-leaves  for  her 
lady's  pot  pourri.  Ranks  of  white  lilies,  just  brought  to  perfection 
by  to-day's  sun,  lay  dabbled  in  the  mire  of  flooded  mould.  Tears 
ran  down  the  amber  cheeks  of  the  plums  on  the  south  wall,  and 
not  a  bee  had  ventured  out  of  the  hives,  though  the  scent  of  the 
air  was  sweet  enough  to  tempt  the  laziest  drone.  The  sky  was 
still  lurid  behind  the  boles  of  the  upland  oaks,  but  the  birds  had 
begun  to  dive  in  and  out  of  the  ivy  that  wrapped  up  the  home  of 
the  Hurlys  of  Hurly  Burly. 

This  thunderstorm  took  place  more  than  half  a  century  ago,  and 
we  must  remember  that  Mistress  Hurly  was  dressed  in  the  fashion 
of  that  time  as  she  crept  out  from  behind  the  squire's  chair,  now  that 
the  lightning  was  over,  and,  with  many  nervous  glances  towards  the 
window,  sat  down  before  her  husband,  the  tea-urn,  and  the  muffins. 
We  can  picture  her  fine  lace  cap,  with  its  peachy  ribbons,  the  frill 
on  the  hem  of  her  cambric  gown  just  touching  her  ankles,  the 
embroidered  clocks  on  her  stockings,  the  rosettes  on  her  shoes,  but 
not  so  easily  the  lilac  shade  of  her  mild  eyes,  the  satin  skin,  which 
still  kept  its  delicate  bloom,  though  wrinkled  with  advancing  age, 
and  the  pale,  sweet,  puckered  mouth,  that  time  and  sorrow  had 
made  angelic  while  trying  vainly  to  deface  its  beauty. 

Vol.xit.No.169.    September,  1886.  84 

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458  The  Haunted  Organist  of  Surly  Burly. 

The  squire  was  as  rugged  as  his  wife  was  gentle,  his  skin  as 
brown  as  hers  was  white,  his  grey  hair  as  bristling  as  hers  was 
glossed ;  <ihe  years  had  ploughed  his  face  into  ruts  and  channels ; 
a  bluff,  choleric,  noisy  man  he  had  been ;  but  of  late  a  dimness 
had  come  on  liis  eyes,  -a  hush  on  his  loud  voice,  -and  a  check  on  the 
spring  of  his  hale  step.  He  looked  at  his  wife  often,  and  very 
often  she  looked  at  him.  She  was  not  a  tall  woman,  and  he  was 
only  a  head  higher.  They  were  a  quaintly  well-matched  couple 
despite  their  differences.  She  turned  to  you  with  nervous  sharp- 
ness and  revealed  her  tender  voice  and  eye ;  he  spoke  and  glanced 
roughly,  but  the  turn  of  his  head  was  courteous.  Of  late  they 
fitted  one  another  better  than  they  had  ever  done  in  the  heyday  of 
their  youthful  love.  A  common  sorrow  had  developed  a  singular 
likeness  between  them.  In  former  years  the  cry  from  the  wife 
had  been,  "  Don't  curb  my  son  too  much !  "  and  from  the  husband, 
"  You  ruin  the  lad  with  softness.1'  But  now  the  idol  that  had 
stood  between  them  was  removed,  and  they  saw  each  other  better. 

The  room  in  which  they  sat  was  a  pleasant  old-fashioned 
drawingroom,  with  a  general  spider-legged  character  about  the 
fittings ;  spinnet  and  guitar  in  their  places,  with  a  great  deal  of 
copied  music  beside  them ;  carpet  tawny  wreaths  on  pale  blue  ;  blue 
fluting8  on  the  walls,  and  faint  gilding  on  the  furniture.  A  huge 
urn,  crammed  with  roses,  in  the  open  bay-window,  through  which 
came  delicious  airs  from  the  garden,  the  twittering  of  birds 
settling  to  sleep  in  the  ivy  close  by,  and  occasionally  the  pattering 
of  a  flight  of  rain-drops,  swept  to  the  ground  as  a  bough  bent  in 
the  breeze.  The  uro  on  the  table  was  ancient  silver,  and  the  china 
rare.  There  was  nothing  in  the  room  for  luxurious  ease  of  the 
body,  but  everything  of  delicate  refinement  for  the  eye. 

There  was  a  great  hush  all  over  Hurly  Burly,  except  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  the  rooks.  Every  living  thing  had  suffered 
from  heat  for  the  past  month,  and  now,  in  common  with  all  nature, 
was  receiving  the  boon  of  refreshed  air  in  silent  peace.  The 
mistress  and  master  of  Hurly  Burly  shared  the  general  spirit  that 
was  abroad,  and  were  not  talkative  over  their  tea. 

<s  Do  you  know,*'  said  Mistress  Hurly,  at  last,  w  when  I  beard 
the  first  of  the  thunder  beginning  I  thought  it  was — it  was ** 

The  lady  broke  down,  her  lips  trembling,  and  the  peachy 
ribbons  of  her  cap  stirring  with  great  agitation. 

"  Pshaw  1 "  cried  the  old  squire,  making  his  cup  suddenly  ring 
upon  the  saucer,  "  we  ought  to  have  forgotten  that.  Nothing  has 
been  heard  for  three  months/' 


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The  Haunted  Organist  of  Surly  Burly.  459 

At  this  moment  a  rolling  sound  struck  upon  the  ears  of  both. 
The  lady  rose  from  her  seat  trembling,  and  folded  her  hands 
together,  while  the  tea-urn  flooded  the  tray. 

"Nonsense,  my  love,"  said  the  squire ;  "  that  is  the  noise  of 
wheels.    Who  can  be  arriving  P  " 

"Who,  indeed t"  murmured  the  lady,  reseating  herself  in 
agitation. 

Presently  pretty  Bess  of  the  roseJeaves  appeared  at  the  door 
in  a  flutter  of  blue  ribbons. 

"  Please,  madam,  a  lady  has  arrived,  and  says  she  is  expected. 
She  asked  for  her  apartment,  and  I  put  her  into  the  room  that  was 
got  ready  for  Miss  Calderwood.  And  she  sends  her  respects  to 
you,  madam,  and  she'll  be  down  with  you  presently." 

The  squire  looked  at  his  wife,  and  his  wife  looked  at  the 
squire. 

"  It  is  some  mistake,"  murmured  madam.  "  Some  visitor  for 
Calderwood  or  the  Grange.     It  is  very  singular." 

Hardly  had  she  spoken  when  the  door  again  opened,  and  the 
stranger  appeared — a  small  creature,  whether  girl  or  woman  it 
would  be  hard  to  say — dressed  in  a  scanty  black  silk  dress,  her 
narrow  shoulders  covered  with  a  white  muslin  pelerine.  Her  hair 
was  swept  up  to  the  crown  of  her  head,  all  but  a  little  fringe  hang- 
ing over  her  low  forehead  within  an  inch  of  her  brows.  Her  face 
was  brown  and  thin,  eyes  black  and  long,  with  blacker  settings, 
mouth  large,  sweet,  and  melancholy.  She  was  all  head,  mouth, 
and  eyes ;  her  nose  and  chin  were  nothing. 

This  visitor  crossed  the  floor  hastily,  dropped  a  courtesy  in  the 
middle  of  the  room,  and  approached  the  table,  flaying  abruptly, 
with  a  soft  Italian  accent : 

"  Sir  and  madam,  I  am  here.     I  am  come  to  play  your  organ." 

"  The  organ  !  "  gasped  Mistress  Hurly. 

"  The  organ !  "  stammered  the  squire. 

"  Yes,  the  organ,"  said  the  little  stranger  lady,  playing  on  the 
back  of  a  chair  with  her  ftajgers,  as  if  she  felt  notes  under  them. 
"  It  was  but  last  week  that  the  handsome  signor,  your  son,  came 
to  my  little  housq,  where  I  have  lived  teaching  my  music  since  my 
English  father  and  my  Italian  mother  and  brothers  and  sisters  died 
and  left  me  so  lonely." 

Here  the  fingers  left  off  drumming,  and  two  great  tears  were 
brushed  off,  one  from  each  «ye  with  each  hand,  child's  fashion. 
But  the  next  moment  the  fingers  were  at  work  again,  as  if  only 
whilst  they  were  moving  the  tongue  could  speak. 


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460  The  Haunted  Organist  of  Burly  Burly. 

"  The  noble  signor,  your  son/'  said  the  little  woman,  looking 
trustfully  from  one  to  the  other  of  the  old  couple,  while  a  bright 
blush  shone  through  her  brown  skin,  "  he  often  came  to  see  me 
before  that,  always  in  the  evening,  when  the  sun  was  warm  and 
yellow  all  through  my  little  studio,  and  the  music  was  swelling  up 
my  heart,  and  I  could  play  out  grand  with  all  my  soul ;  then  he 
used  to  come  and  say,  '  Hurry,  little  Lisa,  and  play  better,  better 
still.  I  have  work  for  you  to  do  by-and-by/  Sometimes  he  said, 
'  Brava ! '  and  sometimes  he  said  '  Eccellentissima ! '  but  one  night 
last  week  he  came  to  me  and  said,  '  It  is  enough.  Will  you  swear 
to  do  my  bidding,  whatever  it  may  be  P '  Here  the  black  eyes  fell. 
And  I  said,  '  Yes/  And  he  said,  '  Now  you  are  my  betrothed/ 
And  I  said,  '  Yes/  And  he  said,  *  Pack  up  your  music,  little 
Lisa,  and  go  off  to  England  to  my  English  father  and  mother, 
who  have  an  organ  in  their  house  which  must  be  played  upon.  If 
they  refuse  to  let  you  play,  tell  them  I  sent  you,  and  they  will 
give  you  leave.  You  must  play  all  day,  and  you  must  get  up  in 
the  night  and  play.  You  must  never  tire.  You  are  my  betrothed, 
and  you  have  sworn  to  do  my  work.'  I  said,  *  Shall  I  see  you 
there,  signor  P '  And  he  said,  *  Yes,  you  shall  see  me  there/  I 
said,  '  I  shall  keep  my  vow,  signor/  And  so,  sir  and  madam,  I  am 
come/* 

The  'soft  foreign  voice  left  off  talking,  the  fingers  left  off 
thrumming  on  the  chair,  and  the  little  stranger  gazed  in  dismay 
at  her  auditors,  both  pale  with  agitation. 

"  You  are  deceived.  You  make  a  mistake,"  said  they,  in  one 
breath. 

"  Our  son "  began  Mistress  Hurly,  but  her  mouth  twitched, 

her  voice  broke,  and  she  looked  piteously  towards  her  husband. 

"  Our  son,"  said  the  squire,  making  an  effort  to  conquer  the 
quavering  in  his  voice,  "  our  son  is  long  dead/' 

"  Nay,  nay/'  said  the  little  foreigner.  "  If  you  have  thought 
him  dead,  have  good  cheer,  dear  sir  and  madam.  He  is  alive ;  he 
is  well,  and  strong,  and  handsome.  But  one,  two,  three,  four,  five  " 
(on  the  fingers)  u  days  ago  he  stood  by  my  side/' 

"  It  is  some  strange  mistake,  some  wonderful  coincidence  ! " 
said  the  mistress  and  master  of  Hurly  Burly. 

"  Let  us  take  her  to  the  gallery/'  murmured  the  mother  of  this 
son  who  was  thus  dead  and  alive.  "  There  is  yet  light  to  see  the 
pictures.     She  will  not  know  his  portrait." 

The  bewildered  wife  and  husband  led  their  strange  visitor 
away  to  a  long  gloomy  room  at  the  west  side  of  the  house,  where 


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The  Haunted  Organist  of  Surly  Burly.  461 

the  faint  gleams  from  the  darkening  sky  still  lingered  on  the 
portraits  of  the  Hnrly  family. 

"  Doubtless  he  is  like  this/'  said  the  squire,  pointing  to  a  fair- 
haired  young  man  with  a  mild  face,  a  brother  of  his  own  who  had 
been  lost  at  sea. 

But  Lisa  shook  her  head  and  went  softly  on  tiptoe  from  one 
picture  to  another,  peering  into  the  canvas,  and  still  turning  away 
troubled.  But  at  last  a  shriek  of  delight  startled  the  shadowy 
chamber. 

"  Ah,  here  he  is !  see,  here  he  is,  the  noble  eignor,  the  beauti- 
ful signor,  not  half  so  handsome  as  he  looked  five  days  ago  when 
talking  to  poor  little  Lisa !  Dear  sir  and  madam,  you  are  now 
content.  Now  take  me  to  the  organ,  that  I  may  commence  to  do 
his  bidding  at  once." 

The  Mistress  of  Hurly  Burly  clung  fast  by  her  husband's 
arm. 

"  How  old  are  you,  girl  P  "  she  said,  faintly. 

"  Eighteen,"  said  the  visitor,  impatiently,  moving  towards  the 
door. 

"  And  my  son  has  been  dead  for  twenty  years !  "  said  his 
mother,  and  swooned  on  her  husband's  breast. 

"  Order  the  carriage  at  once,"  said  Mistress  Hurly,  recovering 
from  her  swoon;  "I  will  take  her  to  Margaret  Calderwood. 
Margaret  will  tell  her  the  story.  Margaret  will  bring  her  to 
reason.  No,  not  to-morrow,  I  cannot  bear  to-morrow,  it  is  so  far 
away.     We  must  go  to-night." 

The  little  signora  thought  the  old  lady  mad,  but  she  put  on  her 
cloak  again  obediently  and  took  her  seat  beside  Mistress  Hurly  in 
the  Hurly  family  coach.  The  moon  that  looked  in  at  them  through 
the  pane  as  they  lumbered  along,  was  not  whiter  than  the  aged 
face  of  the  squire's  wife,  whose  dim  faded  eyes  were  fixed  upon  it 
in  doubt  and  awe  too  great  for  tears  or  words.  Lisa,  too,  from  her 
corner  gloated  upon  the  moon,  her  black  eyes  shining  with  passion- 
ate dreams. 

A  carriage  rolled  away  from  the  Calderwood  door  as  the  Hurly 
coach  drew  up  at  the  steps.  Margaret  Calderwood  had  just  returned 
from  a  dinner-party,  and  at  the  open  door  a  splendid  figure  was 
standing,  a  tall  woman  dressed  in  brown  velvet,  the  diamonds  on 
her  bosom  glistening  in  the  moonlight  that  revealed  her,  pouring, 
as  it  did,  over  the  house  from  eaves  to  basement.  Mistress  Hurly 
fell  into  her  outstretched  arms  with  a  groan,  and  the  strong 

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462  The  Haunted  Orgamist  of  Burly  Burly. 

woman  carried  her  aged  friend,  like  a  baby,  into  the  house.  Little 
Lisa  was  overlooked,  and  sat  down  contentedly  on  the  threshold  to 
gloat  awhile  longer  on  the  moon,  and  to  thrum  imaginary  sonatas 
on  the  door-step. 

There  were  tears  and  sobs  in  the  dusk  moonlit  room  into  which 
Margaret  Oalderwood  carried  her  friend.  There  was  a  long  con- 
sultation, and  then  Margaret,  having  hushed  away  the  grieving 
woman  into  some  quiet  corner,  came  forth  to  look  for  the  little 
dark-faced  stranger,  who  had  arrived,  so  unwelcome,  from  beyond 
ihe  seas,  with  such  wild  communication  from  the  dead. 

Up  the  grand  staircase  of  handsome  Calderwood  the  little 
woman  followed  the  tall  one  into  a  large  chamber  where  a  lamp 
burned,  showing  Lisa,  if  she  cared  to  see  it,  that  this  mansion  of 
Oalderwood  was  fitted  with  much  greater  luxury  and  richness  than 
was  that  of  Hurly  Burly.  The  appointments  ol  this  room 
announced  it  the  sanctum  of  a  woman  who  depended  for  the  interest 
of  her  life  upon  resources  of  intellect  and  taste.  Lisa  noticed 
nothing  but  a  morsel  of  biscuit  that  was  lying  on  a  plate. 

"  May  I  have  it  ?  "  said  she,  eagerly.  <c  It  is  so  long  since  I 
have  eaten.     I  am  hungry." 

Margaret  Calderwood  gazed  at  her  with  a  sorrowful,  motherly 
look,  and,  parting  the  fringing  hair  on  her  forehead,  kissed  her. 
Lisa,  staring  at  her  in  wonder,  returned  the  caress  with  ardour. 
Margaret's  large  fair  shoulders,  Madonna  face,  and  yellow  braided 
hair,  excited  a  rapture  within  her.  But  when  food  was  brought 
her  she  flew  to  it  and  ate. 

"  It  is  better  than  I  have  ever  eaten  at  home !  "  she  said,  grate- 
fully. And  Margaret  Calderwood  murmured,  "  She  is  physically 
healthy,  at  least/' 

"And  now,  Lisa,"  said  Margaret  Calderwood,  "-come  and  tell 
me  the  whole  history  of  the  grand  signer  who  sent  you  to 
England  to  play  the  organ." 

Then  Lisa  crept  in  behind  a  chair,  and  her  eyes  began  to  burn 
and  her  fingers  to  thrum,  and  she  repeated  word  for  word  her  story 
as  she  had  told  it  at  Hurly  Burly. 

When  she  had  finished,  Margaret  Calderwood  began  to  pace  up 
and  down  the  floor  with  a  very  troubled  face.  Lisa  watched  her, 
fascinated,  and,  when  she  bade  her  to  Usten  to  a  story  which  she 
would  relate  to  her,  folded  her  oesfleas  hands  together  meekly,  and 
listened. 

"Twenty  years  ago,  Lisa,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hurly  had  a  son.  He 
was  haadsoms,  tike  that  portrait  you  saw  in  the  gallery,  and  hie 


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The  Haunted  Organist  of  Eurly  Burly.  468 

had  brilliant  talents.  He  was  idolised  by  his  father  and  mother, 
and  all  who  knew  him  felt  obliged  to  love  him.  I  was  then  a 
happy  girl  of  twenty.  I  was  an  orphan,  and  Mrs.  Hurly,  who  had 
been  any  mother's  friend,  was  like  a  mother  to  me.  I,  too,  was 
petted  and  caressed  by  all  my  friends,  and  I  was  very  wealthy ; 
but  I  only  valued  admiration,  riches — every  good  gift  that  fell  to 
my  share — just  in  proportion  as  they  seemed  of  worth  in  the  eyes 
of  Lewis  Hurly.    I  was  his  affianced  wife,  and  I  loved  him  welL 

"All  the  fondness  and  pride  that  were  lavished  on  him  could 
not  keep  him  from  falling  into  evil  ways,  nor  from  becoming 
Tapidly  more  and  more  abandoned  to  wickedness,  till  even  those 
who  loved  him  best  despaired  of  seeing  his  reformation.  I  prayed 
him  with  tears,  for  my  sake,  if  not  for  that  of  his  grieving  mother, 
to  save  himself  before  it  was  too  late.  But  to  my  horror  I  found 
that  my  power  was  gone,  my  words  did  not  even  move  him,  he 
loved  me  no  more.  I  tried  to  think  that  this  was  some  fit  of  mad- 
ness that  would  pass,  and  still  clung  to  hope.  At  last  his  own 
mother  forbade  me  to  see  him." 

Here  Margaret  Calderwood  paused,  seemingly  in  bitter  thought, 
bujt  resumed.: 

"  He  and  a  party  of  his  boon  companions,  named  by  themselves 
the  *  Devil's  dub/  were  in  the  habit  of  practising  all  kinds  of 
unholy  pranks  in  the  country.  They  had  midnight  carousings  on 
the  tombstones  in  the  village  grave-yard ;  they  carried  away  help- 
less old  men  and  children,  whom  they  tortured  by  making  believe 
to  bury  them  alive ;  they  raised  the  dead  and  placed  them  sitting 
round  the  tombstones  at  a  mock  feast.  On  one  occasion  there  was 
a  very  sad  funeral  from  the  village ;  the  corpse  was  carried  into 
the  church,  and  prayers  were  read  over  the  coffin,  the  chief  mourner, 
the  aged  father  of  the  dead  man,  standing  weeping  by.  In  the 
midst  of  this  solemn  scene  the  organ  suddenly  pealed  forth  a  pro- 
fane tune,  and  a  number  of  voices  shouted  a  drinking  chorus.  A 
groan  of  execration  burst  from  the  crowd,  the  clergyman  turned 
pale  and  closed  his  book,  and  the  old  man,  the  father  of  the  dead, 
climbed  the  altar  steps,  and,  raising  his  arms  above  his  head, 
uttered  a  terrible  curse.  He  eursed  Lewis  Hurly  to  all  eternity, 
he  cursed  the  organ  he  played,  that  it  might  be  dumb  henceforth, 
except  under  the  fingers  that  had  now  profaned  it,  which,  he 
prayed,  might  be  foreed  to  labour  upon  it  till  they  stiffened  in 
death.  And  the  curse  seemed  to  work,  for  the  organ  stood  dumb 
in  the  church  from  that  day,  except  when  touched  by  Lewis 
Hurly. 


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464  The  Haunted  Organist  of  Surly  Buriy. 

"  For  a  bravado  he  had  the  organ  taken  down  and  conveyed  to 
his  father's  house,  where  he  had  it  put  up  in  the  chamber  where  it 
now  stands.  It  was  also  for  a  bravado  that  he  played  on  it  every  day. 
But,  by-and-by,  the  amount  of  time  which  he  spent  at  it  daily 
began  to  increase  rapidly.  We  wondered  long  at  this  whim,  as  we 
called  it,  and  his  poor  mother  thanked  God  that  he  had  set  his 
heart  upon  an  occupation  which  would  keep  him  out  of  harm's 
way.  I  was  the  first  to  suspect  that  it  was  not  his  own  will  that 
kept  him  hammering  at  the  organ  so  many  laborious  hours  while 
his  boon  companions  tried  vainly  to  draw  him  away.  He  used  to 
lock  himself  up  in  the  room  with  the  organ,  but  one  day  I  hid 
myself  among  the  curtains,  and  saw  him  writhing  on  his  seat,  and 
heard  him  groaning  as  he  strove  to  wrench  his  hands  from  the 
keys,  to  which  they  flew  back  like  a  needle  to  a  magnet.  It  was 
soon  plainly  to  be  seen  that  he  was  an  involuntary  slave  to  the 
organ ;  but  whether  through  a  madness  that  had  grown  within 
himself,  or  by  some  supernatural  doom,  having  its  cause  in  the  old 
man's  curse,  we  did  not  dare  to  say.  By-and-by  there  came  a  time 
when  we  were  wakened  out  of  our  sleep  at  nights  by  the  rolling  of 
the  organ.  He  wrought  now  night  and  day.  Food  and  rest  were 
denied  him.  His  face  got  haggard,  his  beard  grew  long,  his  eyes 
started  from  their  sockets.  His  body  became  wasted,  and  his 
cramped  fingers  like  the  claws  of  a  bird.  He  groaned  piteously 
as  he  stooped  over  his  cruel  toil.  All  savQ  his  mother  and  I  were 
afraid  to  go  near  him.  She,  poor,  tender  woman,  tried  to  put  wine 
and  food  between  his  lips  while  the  tortured  fingers  crawled  over 
the  keys,  but  he  only  gnashed  his  teeth  at  her  with  curses,  and 
she  retreated  from  him  in  terror,  to  pray.  At  last  one  dreadful 
hour,  we  found  him  a  ghastly  corpse  on  the  ground  before  the 
organ. 

"  From  that  hour  the  organ  was  dumb  to  the  touch  of  all 
human  fingers.  Many,  unwilling  to  believe  the  story,  made  per- 
severing endeavours  to  draw  sound  from  it,  but  in  vain.  But 
when  the  darkened  empty  room  was  locked  up  and  left,  we  heard 
as  loud  as  ever  the  well-known  sounds  humming  and  rolling 
through  the  walls.  Night  and  day  the  tones  of  the  organ  boomed 
on  as  before.  It  seemed  that  the  doom  of  the  wretched  man  was 
not  yet  fulfilled,  although  his  tortured  body  had  been  worn  out  in 
the  terrible  struggle  to  accomplish  it.  Even  his  own  mother  was 
afraid  to  go  near  the  room  then.  So  the  time  went  on,  and  the 
curse  of  this  perpetual  music  was  not  removed  from  the  house. 
Servants  refused  to  stay  about  the  place.     Visitors  shunned  it. 


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The  Haunted  Organist  of  Hurly  Burly.  465 

The  squire  and  his  wife  left  their  home  for  years,  and  returned ; 
left  it,  and  returned  again,  to  find  their  ears  still  tortured  and  their 
hearts  wrung  by  the  unceasing  persecution  of  terrible  sounds.  At 
last,  but  a  few  months  ago,  a  holy  man  was  found,  who  locked 
himself  up  in  the  cursed  chamber  for  many  days,  praying  and 
wrestling  with  the  demon.  After  he  came  forth  and  went  away 
the  sounds  ceased,  and  the  organ  was  heard  no  more.  Since  then 
there  has  been  peace  in  the  house.  And  now,  Lisa,  your  strange 
appearance  and  your  strange  story  convince  us  that  you  are  a 
victim  of  a  ruse  of  the  Evil  One.  Be  warned  in  time,  and  place 
yourself  under  the  protection  of  God,  that  you  may  be  saved  from 
the  fearful  influences  that  are  at  work  upon  you.     Come " 

Margaret  Calderwood  turned  to  the  corner  where  the  stranger 
sat,  as  she  had  supposed,  listening  intently.  Little  Lisa  was  fast 
asleep,  her  hands  spread  before  her  as  if  she  played  an  organ  in 
her  dreams. 

Margaret  took  the  soft  brown  face  to  her  motherly  breast,  and 
kissed  the  swelling  temples,  too  big  with  wonder  and  fancy. 

"  We  will  save  you  from  a  horrible  fate !  "  she  murmured,  and 
carried  the  girl  to  bed. 

In  the  morning  Lisa  was  gone.  Margaret  Calderwood,  coming 
early  from  her  own  chamber,  went  into  the  girl's  room  and  found 
the  bed  empty. 

"  She  is  just  such  a  wild  thing/'  thought  Margaret,  "  as  would 
rush  out  at  sunrise  to  hear  the  larks ! "  and  she  went  forth  to  look 
for  her  in  the  meadows,  behind  the  beech  hedges,  and  in  the  home 
park.  Mistress  Hurly,  from  the  breakfast-room  window,  saw 
Margaret  Calderwood,  large  and  fair  in  her  white  morning  gown, 
coming  down  the  garden-path  between  the  rose  bushes,  with  her 
fresh  draperies  dabbled  by  the  dew,  and  a  look  of  trouble  on  her 
calm  face.  Her  quest  had  been  unsuccessful.  The  little  foreigner 
had  vanished. 

A  second  search  after  breakfast  proved  also  fruitless,  and 
towards  evening  the  two  women  drove  back  to  Hurly  Burly 
together.  There  all  was  panic  and  distress.  The  squire  sat  in  his 
study  with  the  doors  shut,  and  his  hands  over  his  ears.  The 
servants,  with  pale  faces,  were  huddled  together  in  whispering 
groups.  The  haunted  organ  was  pealing  through  the  house  as  of 
old. 

Margaret  Calderwood  hastened  to  the  fatal  chamber,  and  there, 
sure  enough,  was  Lisa,  perched  upon  the  high  seat  before  the 


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466  Tie  Haunted  Organist  of  Surly  Burly. 

organ,  beating  the  keyB  with  her  email  hands,  her  slight  figure 
swaying,  and  the  evening  sunshine  playing  about  her  weird  head* 
Sweet  unearthly  music  she  wrung  from  the  groaning  heart  of  the 
organ — with  melodies,  mounting  to  rapturous  heights  and  falling 
to  mournful  depths.  She  wandered  from  Mendelssohn  to  Mozart, 
and  from  Mozart  to  Beethoven.  Margaret  stood  fascinated  awhile 
by  the  ravishing  beauty  of  the  sounds  she  heard,  but,  rousing 
herself  quickly,  put  her  arms  round  the  musician  and  forced  her 
away  from  the  chamber.  Lisa  returned  next  day,  however,  and 
was  not  so  easily  coaxed  from  her  post  again.  Day  after  day  she 
laboured  at  the  organ,  growing  paler  and  thinner,  and  more  weird- 
looking  as  the  time  went  on. 

"  I  work  so  hard/'  she  said  to  Mrs.  Hurly.  a  The  signor,  your 
son,  is  he  pleased  ?  Ask  him  to  come  and  tell  me  himself  if  he 
is  pleased." 

Mistress  Hurly  got  ill  and  took  to  her  bed.  The  squire  swore 
at  the  young  foreign  baggage,  and  roamed  abroad.  Margaret 
Calderwood  was  the  only  one  who  stood  by  to  watch  the  fate  of 
the  little  organist.  The  curse  of  the  organ  was  upon  Lisa ;  it 
spoke  under  her  hand,  and  her  hand  was  its  slave. 

At  last  she  announced  rapturously  that  she  had  had  a  visit  from 
the  brave  signor,  who  had  commended  her  industry,  and  urged  her 
to  work  yet  harder.  After  that  she  ceased  to  hold  any  communi- 
cation with  the  living.  Time  after  time  Margaret  Calderwood 
wrapped  her  arms  about  the  frail  thing,  and  carried  her  away  by 
force,  locking  the  door  of  the  fatal  chamber.  But  locking  the 
chamber  and  burying  the  key  were  of  no  avail  The  door  stood 
open  again,  and  Lisa  was  labouring  on  her  perch. 

One  night,  wakened  from  her  sleep  by  the  well-known  hum- 
ming and  moaning  of  the  organ,  Margaret  dressed  hurriedly  and 
hastened  to  the  unholy  room.  Moonlight  was  pouring  down  the 
staircase  and  passages  of  Hurly  Burly.  It  shone  on  the  marble 
bust  of  the  dead  Lewis  Hurly,  that  stood  in  the  niche  above  his 
mother's  sittingroom  door*  The  organ  room  woe  full  of  it  when 
Margaret  pushed  open  the  door  and  entered — full  of  the  pale  green 
moonlight  from  the  window,  mingled  with  another  light,  a  dull 
lurid  glare  which  seemed  to  centre  round  a  dark  shadow,  like  the 
figure  of  a  man  standing  by  the  organ,  and  throwing  out  in 
fantastic  relief  the  slight  form  of  Lisa  writhing,  rather  than 
swaying,  back  and  forward,  as  if  in  agony.  The  sounds  that  came 
from  the  organ  were  broken  and  meaningless,  as  if  the  hands  of 
the  player  lagged  and  stumbled  on  the  keys.    Between  the  inter- 


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The  Haunted  Organist  of  Surly  Burly.  467 

mittent  chords  low  moaning  cries  broke  from  Lisa,  and  the  dark 
figure  bent  towards  ber  with  menacing  gestures.  Trembling  with 
the  sickness  of  supernatural  fear,  yet  strong  of  will,  Margaret 
Calderwood  crept  forward  within  the  lurid  light,  and  was  drawn 
into  its  influence.  It  grew  and  intensified  upon  her,  it  daazled 
and  blinded  her  at  first,  but  presently,  by  a  daring  effort 
of  will,  she  raised  her  eyes  and  beheld  Lisa's  face  convulsed  with 
torture  in  the  burning  glare,  and  bending  over  her  the  figure  and 
the  features  of  Lewis  Hurly !  Smitten  with  horror,  Margaret  did 
not  even  then  lose  her  presence  of  mind.  She  wound  her  strong 
arms  around  the  wretched  girl  and  dragged  her  from  her  seat  and 
out  of  the  influence  of  the  lurid  light,  which  immediately  paled 
away  and  vanished.  She  carried  her  to  her  own  bed,  where  Lisa 
lay,  a  wasted  wreck,  raving  about  the  cruelty  of  the  pitiless  signor 
who  would  not  see  that  die  was  labouring  her  best.  Her  poor 
cramped  hands  kept  beating  the  coverlet,  as  though  she  were  still 
at  her  agonising  task. 

Margaret  Calderwood  bathed  her  burning  temples,  and  placed 
fresh  flowers  upon  her  pillow.  She  opened  the  blinds  and  windows, 
and  let  in  the  sweet  morning  air  and  sunshine,  and  then  looking 
up  at  the  newly  awakened  sky  with  its  fair  promise  of  hope  for 
the  day,  and  down  at  the  dewy  fields,  and  far  off  at  the  dark  green 
woods  with  the  purple  mists  still  hovering  about  them,  she  prayed 
that  a  way  might  be  shown  her  by  which  to  put  an  end  to  this 
curse.  She  prayed  for  Lisa,  and.  then,  thanking  that  the  girl 
rested  somewhat,  stole  from  the  room.  She  thought  that  she  had 
locked  the  door  behind  her. 

She  went  down  stairs  with  a  pale,  resolved  face,  and,  without 
consulting  anyone,  sent  to  the  village  for  a  bricklayer.  After- 
wards she  sat  by  Mistress  Hurly's  bedside,  and  explained  to  her 
what  was  to  be:  done.  Presently  she  went  to  the  door  of  Lisa.'* 
room,  and  hearing  no  sound,  thought  the  girl  slept,  and  stole  away. 
By-and-by  she  went  downstairs,  and  found  that  the  bricklayer  had 
arrived  and  already  begun  hiia  taak  of  building  up  the  organ-room 
door.  He  was  a  swift  workman,,  and  the  chamber  was  soon  sealed 
safely  with  stone  and  mortar. 

Having  seen  this  work  finished,  Margaret  Calderwood  went 
and  listened  again  at  Lisa's  doer  ;  and  still  hearing  no  sound,  she 
returned,  and  took  her  seat  a*  Mrs.  Hurly's  bedside  once  more. 
It  was  toward*  evening  that  she  at  last  entered  her  room  to  assure 
herself  of  the  comfort  of  Lisa's  sleep.  But  the  bed  and  room 
were  empty.    Lisa  had  disappeared. 


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468  rJhe  Haunted  Organist  of  Hurly  Burly. 

Then  the  search  began,  upstairs  and  downstairs,  in  the  garden, 
in  the  grounds,  in  the  fields  and  meadows.  No  Lisa.  Margaret 
Calderwood  ordered  the  carriage  and  drove  to  Calderwood  to  see 
if  the  strange  little  will-o'-the-wisp  might  have  made  her  way 
there ;  then  to  the  village,  and  to  many  other  places  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood which  it  was  not  possible  she  could  have  reached.  She 
made  inquiries  everywhere,  she  pondered  and  puzzled  over  the 
matter.  In  the  weak,  suffering  state  that  the  girl  was  in,  how  far 
could  she  have  crawled  P 

After  two  days*  search,  Margaret  returned  to  Hurly  Burly. 
She  was  sad  and  tired,  and  the  evening  was  chill.  She  sat  over 
the  fire  wrapped  in  her  shawl  when  little  Bess  came  to  her,  weep- 
ing behind  her  muslin  apron. 

"  If  you'd  speak  to  Mistress  Hurly  about  it,  please,  ma'am," 
she  said.  "  I  love  her  dearly,  and  it  breaks  my  heart  to  go  away, 
but  the  organ  haven't  done  yet,  ma'am,  and  I'm  frightened  out  of 
my  life,  so  I  can't  stay." 

"Who  has  heard  the  organ,  and  whenP"  asked  Margaret 
•Calderwood,  rising  to  her  feet. 

"Please,  ma'am,  I  heard  it  the  night  you  went  away — the 
night  after  the  door  was  built  up  !  " 

"And  not  since  P" 

"No,  ma'am,"  hesitatingly,  "  not  since.  Hist !  hark,  ma'am  ! 
Is  not  that  like  the  sound  of  it  now  P  " 

"  No,"  said  Margaret  Calderwood ;  "  it  is  only  the  wind."  But 
-pale  as  death  she  flew  down  the  stairs  and  laid  her  ear  to  the  yet 
damp  mortar  of  the  newly-built  wall.  All  was  silent.  There  was 
no  sound  but  the  monotonous  sough  of  the  wind  in  the  trees  out- 
side. Then  Margaret  began  to  dash  her  soft  shoulder  against  the 
strong  wall,  and  to  pick  the  mortar  away  with  her  white  fingers, 
und  to  cry  out  for  the  bricklayer  who  had  built  up  the  door. 

It  was  midnight,  but  the  bricklayer  left  his  bed  in  the  village, 
«nd  obeyed  the  summons  to  Hurly  Burly.  The  pale  woman  stood 
by  and  watched  him  undo  all  his  work  of  three  days  ago,  and  the 
•servants  gathered  about  in  trembling  groups,  wondering  what  was 
to  happen  next. 

What  happened  next  was  this :  When  an  opening  was  made 
the  man  entered  the  room  with  a  light,  Margaret  Calderwood  and 
others  following.  A  heap  of  something  dark  was  lying  on  the 
ground  at  the  foot  of  the  organ.  Many  groans  arose  in  the  fatal 
chamber.    Here  was  little  Lisa  dead ! 


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Etndneu.  469 

When  Mistress  Hurly  was  able  to  move,  the.  squire  and  his 
wife  went  to  live  in  France,  where  they  remained  till  their  death. 
Hurly  Burly  was  shut  up  and  deserted  for  many  years.  Lately  it 
has  passed  into  new  hands.  The  organ  has  been  taken  down  and 
banished,  and  the  room  is  a  bed-chamber,  more  luxuriously 
furnished  than  any  in  the  house.    But  no  one  sleeps  in  it  twice* 

Margaret  Calderwood  was  carried  to  her  grave  the  other  day 
a  very  aged  woman. 


KINDNESS. 

BE  kind  to  all    A  gentle  word 
Will  often  heal  like  balm, 
And  even  at  times  a  loving  smile 
Is  more  than  prayer  or  psalm. 

A  kindly  gesture,  friendly  touch, 

Will  lift  a  load  of  care, 
Bring  light  into  the  languid  eye, 

Faint  heart  win  from  despair. 

Give  with  no  stinted  measure,  then, 

But  let  lore  freely  flow, 
For  graceful  deeds  and  gentle  words 

Pour  blessings  as  they  go. 

Give  to  the  aged  reverence, 
Twill  soothe  their  slow  decline; 

And  to  the  young  soft  sympathy — 
It  cheers  them  like  rich  wine* 

Be  kind  to  all.    Within  each  soul 
God's  image  is  enshrined : 

For  His  sweet  sake  be  pitiful 
Who  died  for  all  mankind. 

Eily. 


Vol.  xrv.  No.  159.  35 


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(    470    ) 


AT  NAZARETH  HOUSE. 

NEARLY  every  volume  of  this  Magazine  has  contained  accounts 
of  some  of  the  wonderfully  beautiful  organizations  which 
in  the  Catholic  Church  minister  to  the  wants  of  suffering  humanity. 
We  are  anxious  to  offer  here  a  more  permanent  home  to  two  similar 
papers  which  with  a  long  interval  between  them  have  appeared  in 
The  Weekly  Register.  They  are  written  by  two  ladies  who,  far 
beyond  graceful  writers  of  an  ordinary  kind,  are  distinguished  by 
an  exquisite  refinement  and  purity  of  style.  We  begin  with  the 
one  who  is  known  to  only  some  of  our  readers,  instead  of  the  one 
who  is  known  to  all  of  them.  The  following  paper  is  signed 
"  Alice  Meynell,"  whom  we  venture  to  introduce  to  our  readers 
more  fully  as  Mrs.  Wilfrid  Meynell,  the  sister  of  Elizabeth 
Thompson  (Mrs.  Colonel  Butler),  painter  of  "  The  Roll  Call,"  and 
herself,  when  Alice  Thompson,  author  of  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
volumes  of  poetry  ( "  Preludes  ")  that  any  woman  or  man  has  pro- 
duced in  our  day.  Many  have  learned  to  look  out  eagerly  for 
every  scrap  of  her  very  perfect  prose  in  Merry  England,  The 
Magazine  of  Art,  &c.  Here  is  the  way  she  pleads  the  cause  of  one 
London  "  Home  "  in  which  the  orphans  and  the  aged  are  sheltered 
together,  as  in  that  "  Home  "  in  Newry,  which  makes  its  appeal 
each  month  in  our  advertisement-columns. 

In  some  of  its  blessed  functions  the  Institution  here  described 
resembles  St.  Patrick's  Home  for  the  Aged,  which  has  sprung  up 
in  its  fine  proportions  on  the  South  Circular-road,  Dublin,  and 
which  has  given  Kilmainham  a  sweeter  sound  than  it  used  to  have, 
now  that  it  is  associated  with  the  admirable  labours  of  these  Little 
Sisters  of  the  Poor. 

"And  you  depend  for  all  this" — 6ays  the  mundane  but 
sympathetic  visitor,  who  has  been  through  the  long  bright  wards 
and  cosy  rooms,  through  the  old  people's  quarters  and  the  children's 
quarters,  the  chapel  and  the  kitchens,  and  who  stands  now  looking 
at  the  new  wing  rising  quickly  at  the  eastern  side  of  Nazareth 
House — "  you  depend  for  all  this  upon  the  chance  of  contribu- 
tions P  "  The  Nun  whom  he  addresses  is  not  among  those  who 
have  sacred  things  glibly  on  their  lips,  and  she  answers  in  a  lc  w 
voice  and  with  a  certain  delicate  hesitation  and  reverence,  "  We 


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At  Nazareth  House.  471 

depend  for  it  all  upon  Divine  Providence."  That  dependence  is 
each  as  only  simple  and  heroic  hearts  could  hear  without  hitter 
anxiety.  Not  only  is  the  daily  bread  of  four  hundred  men, 
women,  and  children  the  gift  of  every  day ;  but  the  helpless 
crowd  that  is  sheltered,  fed,  and  clothed  within  these  walls  has  so 
outgrown  them  that  the  work  of  enlargement  can  no  longer  be 
deferred,  and  those  daily  alms  must  be  made  to  pay  for  the 
important  wing  now  in  course  of  construction.  "  The  gifts  on  which 
we  live  must  greatly  increase/9  the  Mother  seems  to  say,  as  she 
stands  watching  the  builders,  "  before  this  labour  is  complete." 

And  what  a  helpless  crowd  it  is  for  which  the  Sisters  of 
Nazareth  are  working,  building,  and  praying.  The  very  presence 
of  the  active  and  helpful  Nuns  seems  to  set  forth  more  clearly  the 
forlorn  weakness  of  these  children,  old  and  young.  Here  the 
oldest  of  ancient  women,  whose  face  is  extinguished  and  dull  with 
the  shadow  of  coming  death,  lies  silent  and  serene  in  the  long 
bright  ward  ;  here  the  orphaned  baby  lies  in  the  virginal  arms  of 
the  Nun,  more  tender  than  many  a  mother ;  there  the  incurable 
child  rests  on  some  pretty  patchwork  cushion  the  little  head  that 
will  never  meet  the  storms  of  the  world ;  there,  again,  is  the  poor 
girl  born  with  some  affliction  that  will  for  ever  prevent  her  from 
leaving  the  walls  which  gave  her  hapless  infancy  a  refuge ;  there 
again,  is  the  blind  imbecile,  proud  of  the  one  thing  she  can  do — 
the  singing  of  little  songs — and  delighted  with  the  kind  applause 
of  the  Sisters ;  yonder  is  "  the  oldest  man  that  ever  wore  grey 
hairs  "  taking  a  little  comfort  from  his  pipe  and  from  his  news- 
paper, watching  with  his  dim  eyes  the  activity  of  the  mere 
septuagenarian  who  is  strong  enough  to  chop  the  wood  and  fetch 
and  carry  for  the  house.  And  all  this  little  population — more  than 
poor,  more  than  forlorn — is  dependent  upon  the  foresight,  the  skill, 
the  vigilance,  the  constant  tenderness  of  the  Sisters  of  Nazareth. 
All  these  meals,  all  these  garments,  and  many  a  little  indulgence 
which  sick  infancy  and  extreme  old  age  can  scarcely  live  without, 
are  gleaned  by  the  Nuns — humble  labourers,  voluntary  mendicants, 
who  follow  in  tke  wake  of  the  great  pageant  of  luxury  and  wealth 
which  goes  restlessly  "  to  and  fro  in  the  world,  and  up  and  down 
in  it." 

The  yorld  has  talked  a  great  deal — from  the  time  when  the 
Revival  of  Learning  put  ladies  in  Padua  and  Florence,  in  London 
and  Paris,  to  their  Greek,  down  to  the  lesser  Renascence  of  our 
own  days — of  the  training  and  advancement  of  women.  But  all 
the  while  a  quantity  of  feminine  mental  power  was  stored  in  the 


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472  At  Nazareth  Same. 

cloister,  and  put  to  scientific  use  according  to  the  purposes  of 
charity.  And  the  qualities  developed  by  the  active  Orders  of 
Nuns  are  those  for  which  women  have  gained  least  credit  in  secular 
affairs — the  abilities,  moral  and  mental,  that  make  for  organization 
and  discipline  on  a  large  scale.  The  "  criticism  of  life  "  which  is 
supplied  by  literature  has  long  ago  and  repeatedly  asserted  that 
woman  is  capable  of  subjection,  and  of  administering  and  receiv- 
ing orders,  when  it  is  a  question  of  the  special  and  personal 
relations  of  the  family ;  but  that  the  generalities,  the  abstractions, 
the  denial  of  the  feminine  need  for  exceptions,  which  are  condi- 
tions of  work  on  a  large  scale,  are  fatal  to  its  undertaking  or 
successful  accomplishment  by  women.  At  most  it  is  conceded 
that,  kept  in  discipline  by  the  strong  influence  of  affec- 
tionate reverence,  women  would  work  in  a  body  immediately 
under  the  personal  direction  of  a  clerical  head — direction  which 
each  member  should  enjoy  in  its  separate  application  to  herself. 
But  even  so,  the  world  thinks,  in  its  ready-made  way  of  thinking, 
that  there  will  continually  be  in  such  a  body  all  the  friction  which 
comes  of  personal  feeling.  And  this  is  the  rather  vulgar  belief  of 
both  men  and  women.  But  meanwhile,  without  show  or  clatter 
or  fanfaron  of  any  kind,  Religious  Women  have  been  submitting, 
in  large  bodies,  to  rules  far  more  general  and  inexorable  than  any 
dreamed  of  in  the  world's  affairs ;  have  been  resigning  all  of  their 
individuality  which  could  not  be  brought  under  strict  rule ;  have 
been  obeying  a  woman,  in  union  with  women;  have  been 
organizing  with  mathematical  attention  to  proportion ;  have  been 
commanding  with  moderation,  following  with  unanimity,  doing 
large  monotonous  work  with  the  precision  of  machinery ;  doing 
everything,  in  short,  which  does  not  fit  the  vulgar  judgment  as  to 
feminine  capacity. 

And  all  this  is  done  in  the  difficult  cause  of  charity — of  that 
charity  which  is  so  attractive  when  glanced  at  from  without,  so  full 
of  disappointments  and  disillusions  within.  But  it  is  done  in  the 
Divine  strength  that  cannot  tire,  by  women  whose  ideal  is  in 
Heaven,  and  who  therefore  do  not  take  to  heart  the  shortcomings  of 
earth,  and  who  mingle  the  practices  of  the  cloister  and  the  choir 
with  those  of  the  ward  and  the  nursery.  Assuredly  it  is  no  slight 
power  of  head  and  hand  that  keeps  such  a  charity  as  Nazareth 
House  in  its  state  of  daily  life  and  vigour.  Nothing  could  suffice 
to  such  a  work  except  an  absolute  precision  in  little  things  and  an 
undaunted  courage  in  great  ones.  The  actual  labour  for  each  Nun 
is  very  great,  for  the  Order  has  no  lay-sisters.    One  of  its  distinc- 


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At  Nazareth  House.  473 

tive  characteristics  is  that  it  is  a  republic  as  regards  work  and 
rank  in  the  house.  Each  of  these  ladies  has  to  go  through  each 
of  the  duties  of  the  place — has  to  clean  and  scrub,  to  cook  and 
wash,  to  make  and  mend ;  each  has  her  night  of  watching  in  one 
or  other  of  the  wards — a  task  that  mitigates  nothing  of  her  next 
day's  labour.  And  each  has  a  programme  of  devotions  which  to 
the  outsider,  might  seem  enough  to  fill  half  a  day,  and  to  which 
she  is  strictly  bound.  But  the  routine,  unvarying  though  it  is, 
has  had  no  power  to  deprive  the  charity  of  the  Sisters  of  Nazareth 
of  its  bloom  and  freshness  and  charm. 

This  fact  is  made  delightfully  evident  by  a  visit  to  the 
children's  rooms.  Here,  if  anywhere,  charity  has  no  disillusions. 
A  mob  of  hearty  little  ones  are  playing  and  dancing  in  the  long 
gay  room,  clinging  to  the  Sister's  dress,  or  running  to  welcome 
the  stranger  with  a  confidence  which  has  a  world  of  significance. 
They  have  never  known  coldness,  or  suppression,  or  discourage- 
ment. The  less  sweet  ways  of  discipline  which  less  wise  women 
can  hardly  do  without,  if  they  have  a  brood  of  four  or  five  to 
shelter  under  their  wings,  seem  to  be  quite  unnecessary  here, 
where  a  hundred  or  two  have  to  be  kept  in  absolute  order.  And 
the  listlessness  common  to  luxurious  children  outside,  and  the 
other  kind  of  apathy  which  belongs  to  the  poor,  are  unknown 
here.  There  is  not  a  look  to  show  ennui  or  restlessness,  or  dis- 
content. The  little  ones  are  full  of  interest.  About  a  lady  visitor 
they  will  cluster  eagerly,  to  look  at  her  ornaments,  to  open  her 
parasol  and  gather  in  a  group  of  sweet  faces  under  its  shadow ;  to 
clasp  her  knees  and  win  her  to  a  romp  with  them  on  the  floor- 
Each  child  is  carefully  dressed — not  only  in  clean  garments,  but 
in  pretty  ones.  There  is  no  frock  that  is  not  gracefully  made  and 
gaily  trimmed.  The  infinite  variety  of  the  odds  and  ends  has  a 
charming  effect  as  regards  the  children,  whose  colouring  has  been 
studiously  suited,  and  who  have  that  look  of  having  been  separately 
and  individually  cared  for  which  takes  something  from  the 
melancholy  of  the  sight  of  an  orphan  crowd.  The  sad  White 
Lady  who  rose  nightly  from  her  grave,  in  the  pathetic  legend,  to 
wash  and  comb  her  little  children,  ill-tended  after  her  death, 
need  not  walk  the  wards  of  Nazareth  House.  The  poor  dead-and- 
gone  mothers  whose  little  ones  are  there  can  rest  in  peace. 

From  the  Incurable  Children's  Ward  the  sounds  are  stiller.  In 
several  cases  there  is  an  eternal  silence,  for  not  a  few  are  dumb ; 
but  more  are  blind.  One  poor  girl  is  shut  away  from  all  messages 
from  her  kind,  except  the  message  which  comes  through  the  Sister's 


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474  At  Nazareth  Htme. 

caressing  hand  on  her  shoulder.  Another  was  rescued  from  some 
dark  hole  in  which  her  deformed  and  blighted  face  had  been 
hidden  away.  Another,  born  without  arms — a  sweet-faced,  rosy 
child  of  about  fourteen — will  never  be  able  to  labour  in  the  world 
to  which  her  young  health  and  spirits  would  lead  her ;  the  Sisters 
have  taught  her  to  write  with  her  mouth .  Another  young  girl  is 
afflicted  with  some  disease  of  the  nerves,  which  keep  her  head  and 
hands  in  perpetual  movement.  Yet  another — a  girl  of  full  age — 
sits  nursing  a  doll,  which  she  cunningly  hides  away  at  any  approach, 
for  fear  this  treasure  should  be  taken  from  her.  These  afflictions 
soften  away  in  the  atmosphere  of  Nazareth  House. 

From  the  ward  of  the  healthy  little  girls  comes  the  sweet 
purring  sound  of  feminine  childhood;  from  that  of  the  boys 
breaks  out  a  robuster  noise.  As  the  visitor  goes  in,  the  Sister 
sets  a  little  troop  to  the  performance  of  "  Old  King  Cole,"  which 
the  boys  act  as  well  as  sing,  one  charming  child  accompanying  the 
whole  ditty  with  an  irrepressible  and  breathless  dance.  Here,  as 
with  the  girls,  the  uncommon  beauty  of  many  of  the  children 
bears  witness  to  the  effects  of  happiness  and  love.  These  little 
feet,  used  to  the  corridors  and  garden,  to  the  wards  and  chapel 
of  Nazareth  House,  are  active  in  their  coming  and  going,  and 
noisy  as  befits  the  feet  of  happy  children. 

And  this  noise,  so  graceful  and  good  in  itself,  is  the  cause  of 
the  pressing  present  need  of  the  convent.  The  old  men  and  old 
women  in  their  beds  are  worried  by  it.  Extreme  old  age  has 
slumbers  which  are  light  and  short  and  few ;  it  watches  with 
wide-open  eyes  the  flickering  of  a  lamp  through  a  long  night, 
and  when  the  wished- for-sleep  comes  by  day,  it  is  hard  to  have  it 
broken.  And  besides,  when  you  come  to  ninety  years,  you  like 
nothing  louder  than  the  tender  voice  of  the  Sister  in  your  ward. 
And  the  dying  love  silence. 

Hence  the  new  wing ;  and  hence  the  appeal  which  the  Reverend 
Mother  of  the  Order  would  have  us  make  for  her  House  at  Ham- 
mersmith. The  halls  and  corridors,  now  being  raised  from  the 
designs  of  Mr.  Leonard  Stokes,  are  to  ring  with  the  unchecked 
voices  of  the  children.  The  main  building  is  to  be  devoted  to  the 
old  people,  now  somewhat  cramped  in  space,  and  there  they  will 
live  and  die  in  peace.  The  charity  which  loves  to  add  to  the  joy 
of  the  joyful,  as  well  as  that  which  loves  to  mitigate  the  suffering 
of  the  afflicted,  is  appealed  to  for  this  work  of  building ;  and  we 
venture  to  think  that  among  our  readers  who  have  the  noble 
elementary  compassion  for  infancy,  and  the  no  less  tender  pity  for 


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Consummatiu*  in  Brevi.  475 

old  age,  many  may  be  found  to  do  something  to  lay  a  brick  in 
these  new  walk. 

The  charily  of  the  Sisters  is  altogether  impartial.  No  one  is 
rejected  from  their  doors,  and  no  one  is  pressed  into  the  Catholic 
fold.  If  a  dying  man  or  woman  asks  for  an  Anglican  clergyman 
or  a  Dissenting  minister,  the  gates  are  open  for  his  coming.  "We 
receive  endless  kindnesses  from  Protestants,"  says  a  Sister ;  "  every 
one  is  good  to  us."  And  this  sweet  and  cheerful  gratitude — this 
utter  refusal  to  take  the  attitude  of  martyrs  and  victims — is  quite 
a  note  of  the  place.  There  was  a  time,  the  Sisters  own,  when 
stones  were  thrown  at  them  by  the  London  roughs ;  but  that  was 
long  ago.  Every  one  knows  better  now.  There  was  a  word  that 
Protestant  England  hated — the  word  "Nunnery/9  Nazareth 
House  has  made  the  name  pleasant  to  the  ears  of  our  countrymen. 


OON3UMMATUS  IN  BREVI. 

In  memory  of  Joseph  Wallace,  8.J.  Born  in  Chicago,  September  20, 1861.  Entered 
the  Society  of  Jesus,  August  2, 1877.  Died  February  5,  1886. 

FEW  days  were  his,  bat  fall  and  perfect  days — 
Full  of  fair  works,  and  gentleness,  and  truth, 
Ripe  to  be  gathered — needipg  not  in  sooth 
Our  length  of  years  to  hear  the  joyful  lays 
They  sing  at  reaping-time  I    But  in  sweet  ways 
He  passed  us  gleaning  after  Christ  through  youth, 
As  through  the  waving  wheat-fields  went  sweet  Ruth, 
Gracious  and  winning  all  men's  love  and  praise  I 

With  face  set  towards  the  mountain's  sunlit  crest 
He  journeyed  towards  the  dawning — all  his  way 

lit  up  by  love — until  apart  from  men 

He  laid  him  down  a  moment's  space  to  rest 

In  death's  swift-passing  shadow.    Ah!  and  then 
Upon  his  soul  there  broke  God's  splendid  day ! 

H.L.M. 


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GOINGS  FORTH  AND  HOME-COMINGS. 

WHICH  of  us  has  not  occasionally  witnessed  the  departure  of 
a  small  boy  for  school? 

The  autocrat  of  the  playroom,  the  terror  of  the  nursery,  the 
inventor  of  all  the  mischief  perpetrated  in  the  house — everyone  de- 
clared he  should  have  been  packed  off  long  ago  (even  his  long* 
suffering  parents  beginning  to  think  there  was  a  good  deal  of  justice 
in  the  remark) ;  but  now  that  the  moment  is  actually  at  hand — now 
that  the  last  farewell  is  about  to  be  pronounced — it  is  a  different 
story! 

What  a  small  pathetic  little  figure  it  is — wrapped  up  in  the 
new  great-coat,  flourishing  a  pocket-handkerchief,  and  blinking 
hard  to  keep  back  the  unmanly  tears  that  will  come  unasked ! 
The  eldest  of  six  is  not  a  very  big  person  after  all,  when  he  comes  to 
stand  alone  on  the  deck  of  the  steamer  that  is  to  bear  him  far  away 
from  home.  All  his  importance  and  "  bumptiousness/'  seem  to 
have  vanished,  and  he  looks  so  forlorn  without  them — poor  little 
fellow ! 

"  You'll  be  all  right — won't  you,  my  man  P  "  says  the  father, 
trying  to  look  bright,  but  finding  it  hard  work  to  smile  somehow. 

"  Oh,  yes ! "  returns  Tommy,  somewhat  huskily. 

The  mother  says  nothing.  Poor  mother !  She  can  hardly  see 
her  boy's  face,  for  the  tears  that  dim  her  eyes  at  the  thought  of 
the  time  so  close  at  hand  when  it  will  no  longer  be  there. 

The  little  brother  stares  at  Tommy  half  in  grief,  half  in 
curiosity. 

"  I'll  take  care  of  the  pony  and  the  rabbits  for  you !  '*  he  cries,  all 
at  once  ;  and  then  poor  Tommy  breaks  down.  The  lump  in  his  throat 
seems  almost  to  suffocate  him,  and  the  little  pocket-handkerchief  is 
no  longer  waved,  for  it  is  otherwise  needed.  The  thought  of  the 
pony  and  the  rabbits  is  too  much  for  him — it  brings  back  too 
strongly  the  dear  old  home  and  all  its  delights  !  How  far  away  it 
seems  already  I  Now  he  is  gone,  and  the  parents  turn  their  steps 
homewards,  having  strained  their  eyes  after  him  till  they  could  see 
him  no  more !  Poor  little  man !  He  tried  so  hard  to  be  brave— 
and  then  to  see  him  break  down  just  at  the  end  like  that — it  was  a 


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Goings  Forth  and  Home-Comings.  477 

pity !    No  doubt  he  is  sobbing  now  as  if  bis  heart  would  break, 
and  they  are  not  there  to  comfort  him. 

How  different  is  the  same  urchin  when  the  holidays  begin  a 
few  months  later  and  he  returns  home  I  His  "beautiful  new 
clothes/'  that  old  nurse  put  out  for  him  to  wear  on  the  morning  of 
his  departure,  are  now  ragged  and  ink-stained,  besides  being 
decorated  with  traces  of  sundry  abominable  pork-pies,  and  jam- 
tarts,  with  which  he  has  been  regaling  himself  during  the  journey. 
His  hat  has  been  knocked  out  of  all  shape  by  a  little  game  of  foot- 
ball, with  which  he  and  "some  of  the  fellows n  have  been 
enlivening  the  tedium  of  the  way.  He  has  had  a  "beastly 
crossing,"  and  is  rather  pale  in  consequence.  But  his  face  shines 
with  good  humour  and  happiness ;  his  voice  is  heard  with  delight  as 
he  hails  a  porter  and  "  chaffs  "  the  guard.  He  catches  sight  of  his 
people  on  the  platform,  and  rushes  up  to  them  with  a  blissful 
whoop,  almost  overthrowing  his  mother  in  the  impetuosity  of  his 
greeting.  He  is  a  very  great  man  indeed,  as  he  points  out  his 
portmanteau  and  whistles  for  a  cab.  And  at  home  he  is  still 
more  important,  as  he  relates  "  the  doings  of  the  fellows " 
to  his  parents,  and  initiates  the  younger  children  into  the  mysteries 
of  "  cow  bites,*'  and  the  like  boyish  achievements !  He  is  beside 
himself  with  happiness  as  he  lies  down  in  his  own  little  bed  at 
night.  How  nice  his  dear  little  room  looks,  with  his  fishing-rod  in 
one  corner,  and  his  air-gun  (that  once  really  did  shoot  a  rabbit) 
over  the  chimney-piece!  Six  weeks  of  unmixed  pleasure — six 
weeks  without  lessons,  without  sooldings,  without  "whops" — it 
seems  too  good  to  be  true !  Tommy  is  so  excited  he  can  hardly 
sleep.  It  is  strange  to  think  this  is  the  same  boy  who  sobbed  so 
pitifully  in  the  school-dormitory,  on  the  first  night  away  from  home, 
until  he  heard  a  chuckle  overhead  and  descried  his  next  neighbour 
grinning  at  him  over  the  partition  !  Then  poor  Tommy  had  ceased 
sobbing  and  had  wrathfully  "  shied  "  a  boot  at  the  intrusive  head, 
a  fierce  anger  mingling  with  his  grief,  and  feeling  altogether 
indescribably  wretched.  All  is  changed  now,  however — all  the  pain 
and  wrath  and  loneliness  forgotten.  That  was  going  away — this 
is  coming  home — a  great  difference  truly  between  these  two. 

Again,  many  of  us  have  witnessed  the  departure  of  such  and 

such  a  battalion  of  her  Majesty's ■  Regiment  to  Zululand,  or 

Egypt,  as  the  case  may  be. 

"Poorfellows,"  we  say,  as  they  march  along,  bravely  and  steadily, 
though  the  band  plays  "  The  girl  I  left  behind  me,"  and  in  the 
crowd  that  accompanies  them  there  are  many  sore  hearts.     There 


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478  Goings  Forth  and  Some- Coming*. 

is  a  ring  of  melancholy  in  the  very  cheers  with  which  they  are 
greeted.  Here  one  old  father  presses  forward  to  grasp  once  more 
the  strong,  brown  hand  of  his  son ;  there  a  haggard,  red-eyed  woman 
uplifts  a  child  for  a  farewell  glance  at  its  father. 

H  Good-bye— good-bye/'— shall  we  ever  see  them  again  P  How 
many  will  come  back — how  many  will  be  left  behind  buried  in  the 
sandP 

Now  they  have  turned  the  corner  of  the  street,  the  last  of  their 
accompanying  cortege  is  out  of  sight,  the  drum  sounds  faint  in  the 
distance— they  are  gone. 

See  the  triumphal  arches,  how  gaily  they  span  the  streets ! 
Banners  flutter  in  the  breeze ;-  the  air  echoes  with  shouts  and 
huzzas.  Windows,  balconies,  roofs  even,  are  thronged  with  people, 
clustering  together  like  swarms  of  human  bees.  Down  in  the 
street  below,  the  crowd  is  packed  so  closely  it  would  seem  im- 
possible that  anyone  should  force  his  way  through  it,  yet  all  at  once 
a  wide  pathway  is  made  as  if  by  magic.     "  Here  they  are !  " 

Yes,  here  they  come.  Home  again  once  more— the  gallant 
fellows — heroes  every  man  of  them !  Their  ranks  are  thinner  no 
doubt — they  are  worn  and  travel-stained,  burned  by  fierce  suns, 
dried  up  by  scorching  winds,  maimed  by  savage  spears  some  of 
them,  and  weakened  by  sickness — but  they  are  here  !  Hurrah ! 
Hurrah!  Welcome  Home!  Royalty  smiles  on  them— their 
fellows  cheer — hundreds  of  hands  are  outstretched  to  grasp  theirs 
as  they  pass.  All  ranks  vie  with  each  other  in  doing  them  honour ; 
nothing  is  too  good  or  too  great  for  them !     Welcome  Home ! 

But  there  are  other  goings  and  comings  than  these. 

"  I  shall  soon  be  back,"  says  the  poor  invalid,  going  away  for 
change  of  air.  "  I  shall  come  home  quite  strong  and  well,  you 
will  see ! " 

He  speaks  confidently,  but  his  eyes  wander  from  one  face  to 
the  other  of  those  that  surround  him,  with  that  inquiring,  anxious 
glance,  so  piteous  to  see.  He  longs  for  encouragement,  but  when, 
it  is  given  receives  it  impatiently,  for  it  lacks  the  ring  of  truth. 
He  says  good-bye  in  a  hasty,  querulous  tone,  as  the  servants  help 
him  down  the  steps,  eyeing  "  the  master  "  with  that  compassionate 
curiosity  he  finds  so  hard  to  bear.  Why  do  they  look  at  him  like 
that  P  He  is  so  much  better — so  anxious  to  be  well.  He  must  get 
well  soon,  he  tells  himself  feverishly ;  the  doctor  said  there  was 
nothing  to  keep  him  baok  if  only  he  could  fight  oft  this  dreadful 
languor,  and  surely  change  of  air  will  do  that !  So  he  struggles 
with  the  weakness  that  makes  his  poor  stiff  limbs  so  strange  and 


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Goings  Forth  and  Rome-Coming*.  479 

heavy,  and  mounts  into  the  carriage  with  an  effort  that  brings 
great  drops  to  his  brow. 

"  Good-bye,  good-bye.  Why  are  they  all  standing  to  see  me 
off  P    I  shall  not  be  long  away.'9 

And  so  he  drives  off,  hardly  glancing  at  the  old  house  where 
he  has  spent  so  many  happy  years,  looking  out  indifferently  at  the 
familiar  scenes  that  he  sees,  perchance,  for  the  last  time. 

For  it  may  be  that  he  never  comes  back ;  or,  if,  indeed,  he  re- 
turns by  this  well-known  road,  he  sees,  and  hears  no  more.  They 
carry  him  past  his  own  house,  perhaps ;  but  the  blinds  are  drawn 
down  and  there  is  no  sound  of  welcome.  To  the  little  church 
where  he  has  knelt  so  often,  and  thence  to  the  very  spot  where  he 
has  stood  many  and  many  a  time,  carelessly  chatting  to  the  neigh- 
bours as  they  came  out  of  the  porch  one  by  one. 

Where  is  your  wreath  P  Lay  it  down  softly,  and  step  on  one 
side. 

Now  earth  to  earth  !    This  is  his  home-coming. 

Again  has  it  not  often  occurred  to  us  to  revisit,  after  many 
years,  old  spots  that  were  dear  to  us  once  P  We  said  farewell  to 
them,  carelessly  it  may  be,  eager  for  new  scenes,  new  experiences, 
and  now  that  we  see  them  again,  is  it  not  more  pain  to  us  than 
pleasure  P 

Here  are  the  old  trees  under  which  we  played  so  often  as 
children — see,  there  are  our  names  clumsily  cut  on  the  bark.  All 
arrayed  in  their  fresh  spring  green,  with  the  same  sunlight 
flickering  through  the  leaves,  birds,  as  in  olden  time,  singing 
amidst  the  branches.  There  is  the  mossy  bank  which  was  our 
favourite  seat — the  same  ivy  clambering  over  it — harebells 
studding  it  as  of  yore.  Yonder  stands  the  old  house  in  the  sun- 
shine— hark  to  the  plash  of  the  fountain  trickling  as  tunefully  as 
ever !  Why,  nothing  is  changed !  Why  should  we  feel  that  it  is 
not  the  same  place — that  it  never  again  will  be  the  same  to  usP 
Is  it  not  that  we  ourselves  are  changed ;  that  our  hearts  cannot 
quicken  to  the  sunshine,  cannot  echo  to  the  music  as  they  did 
in  those  blithe  days  of  old  P  Troubles  that  have  taken  the  bright- 
ness out  of  our  lives,  cares  that  have  robbed  us  of  our  elasticity, 
disappointments  that  have  made  us  hard  and  suspicious — these 
things  came  between  us  and  the  outer  world  and  change  even  our 
surroundings. 

In  truth  the  contrast  between  going  forth  and  home-coming, 
is  never  more  striking  than  when  applied  to  life  itself.  In  early 
youth,  when  the  whole  world  lies,  as  we  think,  at  our  feet,  how 


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480  Goings  Forth  and  Some-Comings. 

bright  a  path  do  we  mark  out  for  ourselves  P  We  shall  do  this 
and  that,  we  say,  we  shall  go  here  or  there — and  which  of  us  find 
that  our  destinies  correspond  in  the  smallest  degree  to  those  we 
planned  for  ourselves.  Indeed,  we  set .  about  it  clumsily — im- 
agining that  life  is  meant  to  be  enjoyed  instead  of  utilised:  mark- 
ing outwork,  indeed ;  but  work  so  pleasant  it  is  to  be  but  a  better 
sort  of  play ;  passing  over  troubles  lightly — as  possible,  but  on  the 
whole  improbable — and  leaving  sorrow  out  of  the  count  altogether. 
In  old  age  one  hears  a  different  version  of  the  great  drama.  As 
the  time  draws  near  for  the  great  Home-coming,  as  the  journey 
ends  and  the  wondrous  shadowy  Fatherland  opens  its  gates,  how 
unlike  are  the  weary  travellers  who  approach  them  to  those  blithe 
wayfarers  who  first  set  out  I  They  will  tell  us  how  little  their 
anticipations  have  been  realised. 

To  this  one  long  toiled-f or  riches  came  all  too  late,  when  youth 
and  health  were  spent,  and  he  had  no  heart  to  enjoy  them.  That 
one  found  success  indeed,  well-merited,  and  fondly  dreamt  of,  but 
the  loved  ones  with  whom  he  hoped  to  share  it  are  dead  and  gone, 
and  it  seems  to  him  to  have  no  savour !  This  emigrant,  after  long, 
weary  years  of  exile,  returned  to  his  native  land  once  more,  but 
old  friends  were  dead — old  associations  forgotten — it  would  have 
been  better  to  have  stayed  away. 

In  truth,  one  need  not  wait  to  be  old  to  discover  how  delusive 
are  the  dreams  of  our  youth.  Does  any  one  reach  middle  age 
before  he  finds  it  out— does  any  one  of  us  pass  a  single  year 
exactly  as  he  anticipated  P  What  do  I  say — do  we  find  that  even 
one  day  corresponds  in  all  its  details  to  the  plan  we  drew  out  of 
itP  How  seldom  are  the  expectations  of  the  morning  realised ! 
There  is  the  same  uncertainty  in  little  things  as  in  great — the  same 
difference  between  setting  about  a  task  and  actually  accomplish- 
ing it.  The  mistake  that  we  make  is,  in  supposing  that  we,  with 
our  changeable,  impressionable  natures,  can  make  of  that  great, 
inscrutable  mystery,  life,  that  which  we  would — as  if  we  could 
govern  it — instead  of  being  ruled  by  it,  as  we  are !  Does  the  day 
mould  itself  in  the  hand  of  the  sculptor  P  Does  the  racehorse 
mark  its  own  course  round  the  turf  P  And  do  we  think  that  we 
can  shape  our  own  lives  P  No  I  we  can  make  of  ourselves  good 
stuff  for  the  Master's  hand  to  work  with— plastic,  malleable, 
answering  to  a  touch.  We  can  correspond  to  the  Power  that 
moves  us,  as  the  delicate,  high-bred  horse  instinctively  obeys 
the  will  of  his  rider — but  beyond  this  we  cannot  go !  We  "make 
of  ourselves  what  we  like — but  of  our  lives  what  Ood  wills !     We 


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Three  Blind  Mice.  481 

are  in  His  hands,  and  must  abandon  ourselves  to  Him.  Is 
there  not  truer  wisdom  in  that  one  little  prayer  of  St.  Ignatius, 
beginning :  "  Beceive,  0  Lord,  my  entire  liberty  " — than  in  all  the 
philosophical  books  that  were  ever  written  P  Shall  we  not  find 
more  happiness  in  thus  throwing  ourselves  on  His  mercy — letting 
ourselves  go,  as  it  were,  with  that  sweeping  all-powerful  tide — 
than  in  battling  with  the  current — fretting  and  fuming  and 
struggling — to  sink  perchance  at  last  P 

As  this  little  paper  treats  of  goings  and  comings,  of  partings 
and  reunions,  it  is  well  to  end  with  a  thought  about  the  word, 
good-bye — a  word  that  need  not  be  so  sad,  if  we  rightly  under- 
stood its  meaning.  Good-bye  signifies  "  God  be  with  you ! " 
Surely  we  could  breathe  forth  no  better  wish  for  our  dear  ones  than 
this ;  it  should  comfort  us  and  not  depress  us.  If  they  go  forth 
into  strange  lands,  and  we  know  not  when  they  will  return — if  we 
ourselves  are  forced  to  part  from  those  near  and  dear  to  us,  and  to 
wander  far  from  familiar  scenes — well,  let  us  say  good-bye  with 
.trusting  hearts.  For  those  that  are  taken — for  those  that  are  left 
— in  life  and  in  death  "  God  with  us  "  always ! 

M.  B. 


THREE  BLIND  MICE. 

THREE  blind  mice — see  how  they  run  I 
They  all  run  up  to  the  farmer's  wife, 
She  cuts  off  their  tails  with  a  carving  knife 
Such  is  the  fate  of  the  three  blind  mice. 

Latins  Rkdditum. 

Tres  oculis  capti  mures,  en  quomodo  currant ! 

Conjugis  agricolae  curritur  usque  pedes. 
HfBC  properat  caudas  illorum  ezscindere  cultro : 

Muribus  heu  coecis  talis  fata  tribus! 

O. 


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NUTSHELL  BIOGRAMS. 

Third  Handful. 

18.  Miles  Gerald  Keoit  was  the  last  male  descendant  of  an  ancient 
Irish  family  of  Roscommon,  the  Keons  of  Keonbrook  (which  at  least 
some  owners  of  the  name  make  a  dissyllable,  quite  different  from 
"Keown" ).  He  was  born  in  1821.  His  father  dying  in  1824  and 
his  mother  in  1825,  the  little  boy  was  left  in  charge  of  their  grand, 
mother,  the  Countess  Magawley,  and  upon  her  death  soon  after,  her 
only  son,  Count  Magawley,  acted  as  his  guardian.*  Young  Keon  was 
sent  to  Stonyhurst  in  1832,  and  the  college  records  for  the  following 
year  state,  that  in  scriptione  Latina,  Gallica,  Anglica  tulit  primum 
premium  Miksius  Keon.  After  his  schooldays  he  spent  some  time  in 
Algeria  but  settled  in  London  in  1843,  and  became  a  professional  man 
of  letters,  in  which  career  his  religion  and  his  nationality  told  seriously 
against  him.  He  edited  Dolman'*  Magazine,  in  1846,  being  preceded  in 
that  office  by  Mr.  Digby  Beete,  and  succeeded  by  the  Bey.  Edward 
Price,  of  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields,  author  of  "  Sick  Calls."  At  this  time 
he  published  a  "  Life  of  St  Alexis,'9  and  contributed  to  the  Dublin 
Review,  He  was  for  twelve  years  a  leader-writer  for  The  Morning  Post, 
At  this  period  he  wrote  "  Harding,  the  Money-Spinner,"  for  the  London 
Journal,  which  was  republished  by  Bentley,  in  book-form,  in  1879, 
four  years  after  the  author's  death.  A  Christian  romance  of  the  time 
of  Augustus,  called  "Dion  and  the  Sibyls,"  is  his  most  finished 
literary  work.  But  a  much  more  important  and  successful  work  was 
his  "  Lessons  in  French,"  with  which  his  name  is,  unfortunately,  not 
linked  in  any  way ;  for  the  book  is  called  Cassell's  Lessons  in  French. 
The  present  writer  can,  from  practical  use  of  this  work,  confirm 
the  opinion  of  a  critic,  who  called  it  "  an  elementary  masterpiece." 
In  1856  Mr.  Keon  went  to  Moscow,  as  correspondent  for  the  Morning 
Post,  on  the  occasion  of  the  Emperor  Alexander's  coronation.  A 
French  traveller,  M.  Boucher  de  Perthes,  in  his  Voyage  en  Ilussie,  says 
of  him ;  "  Tres  religieux,  comme  la  plupart  des  Oatholiques  Irlandais, 
sa  religion  touchait  de  prta  au  fanatisme."  God  reward  this  good 
Irishman  for  thus  impressing  the  Frenchman,  who  probably  was  by  no 
means  fanatical  in  his  piety,  poor  fellow. 

His  friend,  the  first  Lord  Lytton,  the  novelist,  procured  for  him  in 

*  The  Stonyhurst  Magazine,  to  which  we  owe  these  particulars,  mentions  that  this 
distinguished  Irishman  married,  in  1808,  a  grand-niece  of  Pope  Benedict  XIV. 
( Lambert ini),  was,  in  1812,  envoy  from  the  Pope  to  Napoleon,  regent  of  the  Duchy  of 
Parma  till  it  was  apportioned  to  the  Empress  Maria  Louisa,  in  1815,  and  then  her 
Prime  Minister  till  1823. 


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1868,  the  position  of  Secretary  to  the  Government  of  Bermuda,  width 
lie  held  till  his  death  in  1875. 

19.  John  Fishek  Murray  was  born  in  Belfast,  February  11,  1811, 
and  died  in  Dublin,  October  20,  1865.  His  grave  in  Glasnevin  is  not 
far  from  those  of  Clarence  Mangan  and  Denis  Florence  Mao  Carihy.* 
His  father,  Sir  James  Murray  (knighted  by  the  Earl  of  Mulgrave 
when  Lord  Lieutenant  of  Ireland,  for  some  special  professional 
service),  was  a  distinguished  Belfast  Physician  who  removed  to  Dublin. 
His  patent  for  the  manufacture  of  fluid  magnesia  is  still  a  valuable 
property  for  his  representatives.  John  Fisher  Murray  was  the  onoe 
famous  "  Irish  Oyster  Eater "  of  Blackwood's  Magazine;  and  he  con- 
tributed very  characteristic  prose  and  verse  to  John  Mitchel's  United 
Irishman.  Almost  every  one  of  the  few  poems  we  have  seen  from  his 
pen  seems  to  us  to  possess  more  than  ordinary  merit.  We  hope  to 
trace  him  through  the  Magazines  of  his  time,  and  to  publish  some 
personal  details  which  have  been  confided  to  us.  But,  meanwhile,  to 
make  sure  of  bringing  his  name  before  our  readers,  we  place  it  here. 
For  many  a  design  of  this  sort  will  never  be  fulfilled. 

20.  Patrice  Dorrian  was  born  in  March,  1814,  at  Downpatrick, 
at  a  spot  now  inclosed  within  the  beautiful  Convent  of  the  Sisters  of 
Mercy  on  Mount  St.  Patrick.  After  his  theological  course  in  May- 
nooth  he  needed  the  positive  command  of  his  confessor,  Dr.*  Russell, 
his  diocesan  and  then  a  young  professor,  to  overcome  his  dread  of  the 
sanctity  and  responsibilities  of  the  priesthood.  He  was  ordained  by 
Dr.  Murray,  Archbishop  of  Dublin,  September  23,  1837.  He  was 
•consecrated  Bishop  of  Down  and  Connor  on  the  15th  of  August,  1860, 
in  St.  Malachy's,  Belfast,  and  after  a  most  laborious  and  most  fruitful 
episcopate  he  died  in  Belfast  on  the  Feast  of  St.  Malachy,  November 
3,  1885. 

21.  An  Irish- American  correspondent  says  it  is  almost  certain  that 
Andrew  Jackson,  who  is  considered  the  greatest  military  genius  of 
America,  was  born  in  Ireland,. though  his  biographers  say  he  was  born 
in  North  Carolina,  March  15,  1767  ;  some  think  because  foreign  birth 
might  have  disqualified  him  for  the  Presidency.  His  greatest  glory 
was  his  victory  over  the  British,  in  the  battle  of  New  Orleans,  in  1828- 
1832,  January  8th,  1815.  He  was  twice  elected  President,  over  such 
rivals  as  John  Quincy  Adams  and  Henry  Clay.  He  was  the  most 
popular  of  Presidents ;  there  are  towns  called  after  him  in  every  State 
of  the  Union.  His  despatches  and  messages  were  in  good,  vigorous 
English,  but  his  spelling  was  defective.     With  him  originated  the 

*  It  is  immediately  behind  the  old  and  now  disused  burying- place  of  the  member* 
of  the  Society  of  Jesus. 


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484  Nutshell  Biograms. 

formulary  "  O.K."  as  the  initials   of  "  All  Correct,"  still  in  use  over 
all  the  States.    He  died  in  Tennessee,  June  8,  1846, 

22.  The  same  Irish-American  correspondent  gives  the  names  of 
several  distinguished  Irishmen  connected  with  American  history,  where 
it  is  linked  with  Spain.  Don  Alexander  O'Reilly,  the  greatest  of  all 
the  Spanish  Governors  in  Louisiana,  was  born  in  Meath,  in  1 735,  and 
died  in  Spain,  in  1797.  Several  of  the  descendants  of  Conde  O'Reilly 
still  serve  the  Spanish  Government  in  Cuba*  Count  McCarthy  was  a 
leading  man  in  New  Orleans,  in  the  first  years  of  the  present  century. 
Count  Arthur  O'Neill  was  made  Governor  of  Florida  in  1780,  when 
Galvey,  Governor  of  Louisiana,  wrested  Florida  from  the  English 
and  restored  it  to  Spain.  O'Farrell,  Marquis  of  Casacalvo,  was 
Governor  of  Louisiana  for  the  King  of  Spain,  1799-1801. 

23.  This  paragraph  will  not  contain  a  nutshell  biogram,  but  a  few 
remarks  about  nutshell  biograms.     A  correspondent,  J.  G. — not  the 
"  rich  and  rare"  contributor  who  bears  those  initials— has  expressed 
very  intelligent  sympathy  with  these  biographical  miniatures,  and  has 
furnished  a  long  list  of  persons  living  and  dead,  who  might,  he  thinks, 
be  nutshelled  for  the  information  of  our  readers.    Very  many  of  the 
living  we  do  not  venture  to  name,  even  in  this  passing  way ;  but 
amongst  the  living  concerning  whom  our  correspondent  thinks  our 
readers  would  wish  to  know  something,  are  Miss  Kathleen  O'Meara 
and  Lady  Wilde ;  and  among  the  dead,  Miss  Attie  O'Brien.  In  this  con- 
text we  may  gratify  J.  G.,  and  others  who  have  noticed  the  coincidence 
of  baptismal  and  surname,  by  informing  them  that  the  lady  whose  name 
occurred  in  the  obituary  column  of  The  Freeman's  Journal  of  March 
10th,  1886,  was  not  the  gifted  writer  who  will  soon  reappear  in  our 
pages.    We  must  confess  ourselves  unacquainted  with  Mrs.  Anastatia 
O'Byrne,  author  of  "  Lives  of  Irish  Saints."     J.  G.  wishes  for  nut- 
shell biograms  also  of  Father  C.  P.  Meehan,  Martin  Haverty,    Sir 
Bernard  Burke,  W.  M.  Hennessy,  J.  T.  Gilbert,  and  Sir  William 
Betham,  who  is  somewhat  anachronietically  sandwiched  between  J.  P» 
Prendergast  and  Dr.  John  M'Donnell.     Amongst  the  nutshellable 
priests  our  correspondent  names  Dr.  Renehan  and  Dr.  Matthew  Kelly 
of  Maynooth,  Dr.  M'Oarthy  of  Kerry,  "  Dr.  Moran,"  who  we  suppose 
is  the  Cardinal  Archbishop  of  Sydney,  and  the  "  Rev.  M.  J.  O'Farrell/' 
by  whom  he  probably  means  the  first  Bishop  of  Trenton  in  the  United 
States.    By  an  oversight  he  names  Richard  Dowling,  who  has  already 
appeared  as  No.  10  of  this  series,  at  page  158.   Blotting  out  this  name 
and  two  or  three  others,  for  various  reasons,  we  shall  let  J.  G.  finish 
his  catalogue  raisonnS  in  a  paragraph  all  his  own*    He  had  previously 
named  Mr.  Alfred  Webb,  Dr.  Stokes,  the  Rev.  M.  B.  Buckley,  W.  J 
Fitzpatrick,  and  many  more. 


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NuUheU  Biograrm.  485 

24.  "  I  may  give  the  remainder  of  my  list  without  classification, 
and  as  they  occur  to  me,  writing  from  memory  as  I  am.  Thomas 
Wallis,  who  wrote  the  Introduction  to  Davis's  Poems :  J.  F.  Murray 
and  Miles  Gerald  Keon,  both  of  whom  you  regretfully  referred  to  in 
the  Irish  Monthly  long  ago,  as  finding  no  place  in  Alfred  Webb's 
4  Compendium.'  David  Harbison,  an  Ulster  weaver  poet,  like  Francis 
Davis,  but  not  so  famous;  William  Allingham;  Dr.  P.  A.  Murray  of 
Maynooth,  Dr.  N*.  Oallan,  also  of  Maynooth ;  Richard  O'Sullivan,  the 
least  known  of  a  gifted  family.  As  you  gave  John  Boyle  O'Reilly, 
you  might  also  give  another  Irish- American  poet,  John  Savage ;  and 
as  you  gave  an  Irish-American  actor  you  might  give  two  Irish- Ameri- 
can dramatists  and  actors,  John  Brougham  and  Dion  Boucicault 
Townsend  Young,  D.  O.  Madden :  John  Cashel  Hoey  (and  his  wife)  ; 
Bartholomew  Dowling,  Martin  M*Dermott,  M.  J.  M'Cann,  J.  K. 
Ingram,  Dr.  Sigerson,  Mrs.  8.  C.  Hall,  W.  B.  M'Cabe,  P.  W. 
Joyce,  W.  F.  Wakeman.  Dr.  Maginn  of  Derry,  of  whom  Darcy 
M'Gee  wrote  a  life;  and  Mrs.  Sadlier,  who  wrote  a  life  of  Darcy 
M'Gee;  M.  J.  Barry,  Judge  O'Hagan,  J.  E.  Pigott,  Dr.  J.  F.  Waller, 
J.  F.  O'Donnell,  J.  8.  Le  Fanu,  Frances  Browne  (the  Blind  Poetess) ; 
Sir  Stephen  de  Vere,  A.  P.  Graves,  Arthur  O'Shaughnessy,  AbbS 
McCarthy,  Rev.  George  Crolly,  Dr.  John  Anster,  Charles  Phillips, 
Helena  Callanan;  Miss  Julia  M.  O'Ryan,  William  Collins.  By  a 
further  effort  of  memory  names  would  rise  up  '  thick  as  leaves  in 
Vallombrosa,'  all,  I  think,  deserving  record." 

25.  In  the  foregoing  paragraph  I  have  cancelled  six  names,  one  of 
which  at  least  is  sure  to  find  a  place  in  our  pages  hereafter.  Does  J. 
G.  mean  the  Protestant  Rev.  George  Croly,  author  of  "  Salathiel,"  or 
the  Catholic  Rev.  George  Crolly,  Professor  at  Maynooth  P  Both  were 
noteworthy  Irishmen.  Will  the  editorial  head  be  in  danger  of  being 
pelted  with  nutshells  if  we  express  our  readiness  to  receive  biographies 
of  suitable  persons  and  personages  if  judiciously  condensed  into  a 
paragraph  apiece?  We  proceed  forthwith  to  gratify  on  some  points 
the  laudable  curiosity  of  J.  G.,  with  the  help  of  another  kind  cor- 
respondent, J.  0. 

26.  But  first  we  must  give  a  dry  list  of  noteworthy  or  nutshell- 
worthy  names  drawn  up  by  this  second  correspondent  also.  Omitting 
very  many  forestalled  in  this  list  just  given,  we  find  Plowden,  Windele 
of  Cork,  John  Francis  Maguire,  John  Dalton,  James  Roche  of  Cork, 
John  Cornelius  O'Callaghan,  Justin  Mac  Carthy  father  and  son,  Lady 
Morgan,  Lord  Dufferin,  Julia  Kavanagh,  Edmund  O'Donovan,  and 
those  two  gifted  sisters,  Miss  Agnes  Clerke  and  Miss  £.  M.  Clerke,  to 
be  distinguished  from  each  other,  and  both  from  Miss  A.  M. 
Clarke,  Catholic  also,  but  not  Irish,  and  the  author  of  many  excellent 
pages  in  Catholic  periodicals. 

Vol.  xiv.  No.  159.  ^36 

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486  Nutshell  Biograms. 

27.  The  Rev.  Michael  Bebnabd  Buckley  was  born  at  Cork,  on 
9  th  of  March,  1831.  He  was  educated  at  the  Mansion  House  School 
under  the  Yincentian  Fathers.  In  1849  he  entered  Maynooth  College. 
He  was  an  amiable  and  edifying  student.  One  of  his  peculiar  tastes 
was  for  writing  Latin  verse,  chiefly  in  the  style  of  his  townsman, 
Father  Front.  Let  us  put  side  by  side  four  lines  from  him  and  from 
Moore : — 

Fill  the  bumper  fair :  Pocula  replete, 
Erery  drop  we  sprinkle  Frons  enim  rugos ft 

On  the  brow  of  care  Cnrae  potu  laeti 
Smoothes  away  a  wrinkle.  Yini  fit  formosa. 

In  1855  he  was  ordained  priest,  and  after  some  time  he  was  stationed 
in  Cork,  where  he  gained  a  high  reputation  as  a  preacher.  In  1868 
he  published  "The  Life  and  Times  of  the  Rev.  Arthur  O'Leary," 
the  famous  Capuchin  and  controversial  writer.  He  was  very  anxious, 
I  remember,  to  hit  on  some  other  good  literary  subject;  but  probably 
his  mission  to  the  United  States  to  collect  funds  for  the  completion  of 
the  Cathedral  of  Cork,  put  an  end  to  all  such  projects.  He  returned 
in  October,  1871,  in  broken  health,  and  died  on  the  17th  of  May, 
1872,  in  his  42nd  year.  A  Celtic  cross  marks  his  grave  in  the  Botanic 
Gardens  Cemetery  of  his  native  city.  The  Rev.  Charles  Davis,  P.P. 
of  Baltimore,  in  the  Diocese  of  Ross,  since  so  well  known  for  his 
exertions  on  behalf  of  the  poor  fishermen  of  Cape  Clear,  edited  in 
1874  a  volume  of  Father  Buckley's  "  Sermon  and  Lectures,"  to  which 
some  literary  papers  and  classical  facetire  form  an  interesting 
appendix. 

28.  John  Aksteb  was  born  at  Charleville,  in  the  county  of  Cork, 
in  1793,  and  spent  part  of  his  boyhood  at  Bruree — the  place  where 
the  Irish  bards  used  to  meet  for  half-yearly  competitions,  continued, 
according  to  O'Halloran,  to  as  late  a  period  as  1746.  Anster's  father 
was  a  Catholic  ;*  and  for  his  son's  change  of  religion  Trinity  College 
is,  we  fear,  responsible.  He  entered  that  college  in  1810,  and  won  a 
Scholarship  in  1814  without  the  conflict  which  Denis  Caulfield  Heron 
had  to  go  through  for  a  similar '  prize  some  thirty  years  later.  He 
published  some  poems  while  an  Undergraduate,  and  [in  1817  he  wrote 
the  prize  poem  on  the  death  of  the  Princess  Charlotte.  He  soon  after 
became  a  contributor  to  Blackwood* $  Magazine,  and,  in  1820,  the  June 
number  of  that  magazine  published  the  first  portion  of  his  famous 
translation  of  Goethe's  "  Faust " — a  translation  which,  when  completed, 
the  Edinburgh  Review  pronounced  "  one  of  the  few  translations  which 
are  admired,  cited,  and  emulated  in  lieu  of  the  originals."    The  trans- 

*  The  lata  Bar.  Stephen  Anster  Farrell,  S.J.,  was  his  cousin.  We  ha?e  heard 
him  more  than  once  describe  the  courage  with  which  in  some  Dublin  Clubhouse,  "  Jack 
Anster"  repelled  an  insult  offered  to  the  Catholic  faith. 


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Nutshell  Biogram*.  487 

lation  of  the  second  part  of  " Faust"  did  not  appear  till  1864.*  Mr. 
Anster  was  called  to  the  Irish  Bar  in  1 824,  and  went  on  the  Minister 
Circuit  In  1837  he  was  appointed  Registrar  to  the  High  Court  of 
Admiralty  of  Ireland.  In  1841  a  literary  pension  of  £150  a  year  was 
conferred  upon  him.  In  1850  he  was  appointed  Begins  Professor  of 
Civil  Law  in  Trinity  College,  Dublin.  He  died  at  5  Lower  Glouoester- 
street,  Dublin,  on  the  9th  of  June,  1867. 

29.  John  Dalton  was  born  at  Bessville,  county  Westmeath,  in 
1792.  His  talents  were  carefully  cultivated,  and  he  took  his  degrees 
in  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  After  studying  for  the  law,  he  was  called 
to  the  Bar  in  1813.  The  following  year  he  published  a  metrical 
romance,  in  twelve  cantos,  bearing  the  title  of  "  Dermid  ;  or  Erin  in  the 
Days  of  Boroimhe."  In  1828  he  won  the  Royal  Irish  Academy's 
Eighty  Guinea  Prize,  for  the  best  essay  on  "  The  Social  and  Political 
State  of  Ireland,  from  the  First  to  the  Twelfth  Century, '  and  the 
Cunningham  Gold  Medal  also.  This  essay  nils  one  of  the  large  4to 
volumes  of  the  "Transactions"  of  the  Eoyal  Irish  Academy ;  and  is 
a  proof  of  the  learning,  research,  and  national  spirit  of  its  author. 
In  1838  he  published  his  "  Memoirs  of  the  Archbishops  of  Dublin, 
from  Livinus,  who  died  in  656  a.d.,  down  to  Dr.  Murray  who  was  then 
living.  The  same  year,  1 838,  witnessed  the  publication  of  his  "  History 
of  the  County  of  Dublin,"  a  volume  numbering  one  thousand  pages, 
and  forming  a  vast  repertory  of  local  knowledge.  In  1844  he  pro- 
duced the  "  History  of  Drogheda  with  its  Environs,"  in  two  beauti- 
fully illustrated  volumes,  which  were  quiokly  followed  by  his  edition 
of  the  "  Annals  of  Boyle."  In  1855  appeared  his  best  known  work, 
the  "  Illustrations,  Historical  and  Genealogical  of  King  James's  Irish 
Army  list,  1689."  Assisted  by  Mr.  J.  R.  O'Flanagan,  B.L.,  of  Fermoy, 
he  next  brought  out  a  "  History  of  Dundalk."  Mr.  Dalton  was  an 
occasional  contributor  to  periodicals.  He  furnished  "  Illustrations  of 
Irish  Topography  "  to  the  Irish  Penny  Journal,  and  wrote  also  in  the 
Gentleman's  Magazine.  The  not  very  munificent  pension  of  £50  a  year 
was  awarded  him  from  the  Civil  List,  for  his  services  to  literature* 
Mr.  Dalton  died  at  No.  48  Summer-hill,  Dublin,  on  20th  of  January, 
1866,  in  his  74th  year;  leaving  at  his  death  about  two  hundred  large 
manuscript  volumes,  relating  to  the  topography,  genealogy,  and 
history  of  every  part  of  Ireland.  [These  particulars  are  taken  from 
a  sketch  by  Mr.  J.  XL  OTlanagan  in  the  Dublin  Saturday  Magazine.'] 

*  Antler's  "  Faust "  may  be  had  for  threepence  in  CasaelTt  National  Library. 


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FOOTPRINTS. 
A  Psalm  of  the  Wat. 

THOU  passest !    Lo,  what  temple  shines 
O'er  icy  peaks  sublime ! 
If  in  thy  heart  there  dwells  a  man, 

Thy  manly  feet  will  climb. 
Those  shining  gates  are  folding  in 

The  pilgrims  every  day; 
Their  feet  were  toiling  here :  behold, 
Their  footprints  in  thy  way! 

Thou  passest  1  'TIS  a  flowery  road, 

But,  look — on  either  hand 
The  blossoms  wither  at  thy  touch 

In  this  enchanted  land ! 
Strange  flowers  unclothe  the  skeleton, 

Bones  whiten  to  the  day ; 
This  morn  the  lions  came  to  make 

Their  footprints  in  thy  way  ! 

Thou  passest !  'Tib  a  thorny  road, 

But  such  the  worthier  tread  : 
Christ's  heart  was  beating  here  before, 

For  here  man's  footsteps  bled. 
Be  brave :  unconscious  smiles  the  pain — 

To-morrow  heals  To-day, 
The  thorns  remember  brother  feet — 

Their  footprints  in  thy  way ! 

Thou  passest !  'Tis  the  mortal  road ; 

The  path  is  closed  behind : 
The  glad,  the  sad,  the  young,  the  old, 

The  prophet  and  the  blind, 
All  who  have  gone  before,  have  gone 

This  Still,  Dark  Road.    To-day 
Angels  with  wings  alighting  leave 

Their  footprints  in  thy  way ! 

John  Jambs  Piatt. 


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LEIBNITZ 

Pakt  I. 

By  the  late  Very  Rev.  C.  W.  Russell,  D.D. 

[The  present  writer  was  asked  many  years  ago  by  Dr.  Russell, 
who  was  then  Professor  of  Ecclesiastioal  History  in  the  great 
College  to  which  his  whole  life  was  given,  to  make  a  clear  tran- 
script of  a  biographical  sketch  of  the  celebrated  Leibnitz,  from 
notes  of  his  own,  which  the  printers  would  have  found  illegible. 
This  sketch  was  probably  intended  as  an  introduction  to  a  new 
edition  of  Dr.  Russell's  translation  of  Leibnitz's  "  System  of 
Theology ; "  and  a  portrait  of  Leibnitz,  meant,  perhaps,  for  a 
frontispiece  to  the  •  volume,  is  carefully  fastened  to  the  MS.,  as  it 
has  fallen  again  into  the  hands  of  the  copyist  in  a  state  which 
shows  that  it  had  never  passed  meanwhile  through  the  hands  of  a 
printer ;  and,  indeed,  Dr.  Russell  never  preserved  the  manuscript 
of  a  printed  article.  The  printers  into  whose  hands  it  now  falls 
will  find  it  hard  to  believe  that  this  prefatory  note  is  in  the  same 
handwriting  as  the  article  itself. — Ed.  /.  Jf.] 

"  Jack  of  all  trades,"  says  the  proverb,  '<  was  master  of  none." 
It  is  no  less  true  in  the  liberal  than  in  the  mechanical  arts.  The 
would-be  "  universal  genius  "  rarely  attains  to  eminence  in  any 
one  pursuit. 

If  there  be  in  the  entire  history  of  letters,  a  single  name  which 
can  be  regarded  as  an  exception  to  this  rule,  it  is  that  of  Godfrey 
William  Von  Leibnitz.  His  intellect  was  one  of  those  extra- 
ordinary creations,  in  which  Nature,  as  if  for  the  more  prodigal 
display  of  her  powers,  occasionally  indulges.  What  Pico  of 
Mirandola,  or  "the  Admirable  Crichton"  was  in  promise,  he 
became  in  fact.  He  united  in  himself  extremes  which  are 
popularly  supposed  to  be  incompatible.  A  statesman  and  a  meta- 
physician, a  humourist  and  a  divine,  a  poet  and  a  practical  engineer 
— there  is  not  a  department  of  science,  of  literature,  or  of  art, 
which  he  did  not  successfully  cultivate ;  and  there  is  hardly  one 
in  which  he  did  not  attain  to  almost  as  distinguished  a  position  as 
we  can  well  imagine  to  have  been  possible,  had  his  whole  life  been 


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490  Leibnitz. 

devoted  to  it  alone.  In  literature,  ancient  and  modern,  in  lan- 
guages living  and  dead,  in  mathematics,  in  physics,  in  mechanics,  in 
mental  and  moral  philosophy,  in  history,  in  divinity,  in  law,  in 
poetry,  in  statecraft,  even  in  alchemy  and  cabalistic  science  he 
was  not  merely  a  proficient  but  a  master ;  and  there  is  not  one  of 
his  most  distinguished  contemporaries  in  almost  any  of  these 
departments  with  whom  he  may  not  narrowly  dispute  the  palm  in 
his  own  peculiar  pursuit — from  Newton  in  mathematics,  to  even 
the  mighty  Bossuet  in  controversial  theology. 

Godfrey  William  Leibnitz  was  born  at  Leipzig,  June  24, 1646. 
His  father,  Frederic  Leibnitz,  was  a  Professor  of  Moral  Philosophy, 
of  considerable  reputation,  in  the  University  of  that  city.  He 
was  married  three  times:  the  first  and  second  marriages  were 
childless.  Godfrey  William  was  the  son  of  the  third.  His  mother, 
known  before  her  marriage  by  the  unromantic  name  of  Catherine 
Schmuck,  was  a  woman  of  scanty  literary  attainments,  though 
possessed  of  a  strong  natural  capacity ;  and  appeared  to  have  had 
little  share  in  the  mental  training  of  her  young  philosopher. 
Leibnitz  was  the  only  son  of  this  marriage ;  and  he  had  but  one 
sister,  Anne  Catherine,  who  afterwards  married  a  clergyman  of 
her  native  city,  named  Lofleo,  and  whose  children  eventually 
inherited  their  uncle's  property. 

Our  readers,  we  fear,  would  feel  but  little  interest  in  the 
anecdotes  of  his  early  life  which  the  prolixity  of  his  German 
biographers  has  brought  together :  How  he  was  christened  on  the 
eve  of  St.  John :  how  his  godfather  was  a  Doctor  of  Laws,  and 
his  godmother  a  court-preacher's  lady :  how  he  held  up  his  head 
bravely  during  the  ceremony  without  flinching  from  the  baptismal 
water ;  how  he  learned  to  read  out  of  a  little  Bible  History,  and 
used  to  sit  on  his  father's  knee,  listening  to  his  stories  by  the  hour : 
how  he  tumbled  backward  off  a  table,  upon  a  Sunday  forenoon, 
and  narrowly  escaped  being  killed  by  the  f  alL  These  and  many 
similar  details  we  may  safely  pass  over,  confining  ourselves  to  the 
history  of  the  development  of  his  mind — to  the  facts  which  bear 
directly  on  his  mental  training,  and  which  may  tend  to  illustrate 
the  process  by  which  philosophers  are  made. 

Perhaps  it  may  disappoint  the  theorists  in  education  to  learn 
that  Leibnitz's  mind  was  almost  entirely  self-formed.  His  father 
died  before  he  had  completed  his  sixth  year,  too  soon  to  have 
exercised  any  sensible  influence  upon  him ;  and,  although  he 
became  a  pupil  of  the  principal  public  school  at  Leipzig,  the 
Nicolai-Schule,  he  owed  but  little  of  his  progress  to  the  instruo- 


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LeibnUt.  491 

tions  there  imparted.  It  was  the  boast  of  his  later  life  that  he 
was,  in  his  own  peculiar  phrase,  an  "  autodidact " — a  self-taught 
man.  While  he  was  still  little  more  than  a  child  he  chanced  to 
get  possession  of  two  Latin  books,  which  one  of  his  father's  pupils 
had  left  behind  him :  an  old  Venice  edition  of  Livy,  illustrated 
with  the  rude  woodcuts  of  the  beginning  of  the  sixteenth  century, 
and  the  "Chronological  Treasury "  of  Canisius.  With  all  the 
eager  cariosity  of  childhood  he  addressed  himself  to  these  volumes. 
At  first,  of  course,  they  were  a  complete  mystery  to  him,  in 
subject  as  well  as  in  language.  But,  by  degrees,  partly  by  the 
aid  of  the  rude  pictorial  illustrations  which  accompanied  the  text 
of  Livy,  partly  by  that  instinctive  power  of  intuition  which 
marked  all  his  later  studies,  he  began  to  attain  a  sufficient 
familiarity  with  the  language  to  follow  the  main  thread  of  the 
narrative,  and  to  master  the  words  which  occurred  most  frequently 
in  the  text.  In  the  similar  attempt  on  Canisius's  Chrofiological 
Treasury,  he  had  not  the  assistance  of  any  pictorial  representations, 
but  his  progress  was  facilitated  by  the  use  of  a  compendium  of 
universal  history  in  German,  which,  although  not  a  translation  of 
Canisius,  yet  followed  the  same  order,  and  related  for  the  most  part 
the  same  facts  as  those  contained  in  the  Latin  text*  In  this  singu- 
lar way,  not  only  without  the  aid  of  a  master,  but  even  without 
the  assistance  of  a  dictionary,  a  grammar,  a  translation,  or  any 
other  of  the  ordinary  appliances  of  self-tuition,  he  became 
acquainted,  almost  in  childhood,  if  not  with  the  niceties  of  the 
structure  of  the  Latin  language,  at  least  with  the  great  body  of 
its  vocabulary ! 

This  first  stolen  march  into  the  realms  of  knowledge  was  very 
soon  discovered.  His  master  in  the  Nicolai-Schule  learned  the 
secret  from  his  superior  answering  in  class,  and,  alarmed  for  the 
consequence  of  such  premature  application,  thought  it  his  duty  to 
caution  his  mother  against  indulging  the  boy  in  what  he  regarded 
as  a  pernicious  and  exhausting  taste.  The  fate  of  a  life  often 
turns  upon  a  very  slender  chance.  Measures  had  been  actually 
taken,  in  accordance  with  this  advice,  to  shut  young  Leibnitz  out 
from  all  similar  opportunities,  when,  at  the  suggestion  of  another 
friend,  his  mother  was  induced  to  adopt  the  very  opposite  course. 
His  father's  library  was  thrown  open  to  the  boy  without  reserve. 
Although  not  extensive,  it  was  especially  rich  in  his  own  science, 
that  of  Moral  Philosophy ;  and  it  was  to  the  desultory  and  unregu- 
lated reading  of  those  years  that  Leibnitz  owed  that  singularly 
varied  and  often  out-of-the-way  learning  in  this  department  which 


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492  Leibnitz. 

all  his  writings,  even  his  most  familiar  letters,  so  curiously 
display.  The  boy  is  generally  father  to  the  man.  Leibnitz  was 
early  attracted  by  subjects  which,  even  for  advanced  students,  are 
ordinarily  the  most  repulsive.  Another  would  have  turned  eagerly 
to  voyages,  romances,  history,  biography,  poetry.  Leibnitz's 
favourite  friends  were  the  dry  old  dialecticians,  and  the  still  more 
dry  modern  schoolmen.  '  He  was  never  more  at  home  than  in 
those  dreamy  regions 

"  Where  Entity  and  Quiddity, 
The  ghosts  of  defunct  bodies,  fly." 

"  While  I  was  a  mere  child,"  be  writes  many  years  later,  to  the 
Duke  of  Orleans'  Secretary,  Remond  de  Montmort,  "  I  became 
familiar  with  Aristotle,  and  even  the  scholastics  themselves  were 
not  thorny  enough  to  repel  me."  In  the  fragment  of  autobio- 
graphy which  he  has  left,  he  assures  us  that  "  he  read  the  works 
of  the  Jesuit  Suarez  (an  eminent  Catholic  divine,  and  one  of  the 
most  abstruse  and  subtle  of  the  modern  schoolmen),  with  as  much 
facility  and  pleasure  as  others  would  read  a  romance/9  And  one 
of  his  letters  to  the  celebrated  Anthony  Arnaud,  written  when  he 
had  not  much  passed  his  twentieth  year,  contains  a  list  of  the 
authors  whom  he  had  read  upon  one  particular  department  of 
Natural  Theology,  so  long  and  so  entirely  out  of  the  common  line 
even  of  erudite  reading,  that  we  are  afraid  to  venture  upon  an 
enumeration  of  them.  This  list  of  authors,  nevertheless,  is  known 
to  be  a  perfectly  true  and  bona  fide  one.  His  writings  make  it 
abundantly  plain  that  he  not  only  had  read  them  all,  but  had  made 
himself  master  of  everything  important  which  they  contain. 

Indeed,  every  step  in  his  early  progress  appears  equally  mar- 
vellous. All  this  private  reading  hardly  seems  to  have  sensibly 
interfered  with  his  scholastic  studies.  He  easily  surpassed  all  his 
classf  ellows  in  their  ordinary  school  pursuits.  In  Latin  and  Greek 
he  was  especially  distinguished.  Few  writers  of  his  age  have 
excelled  him  in  the  chasteness  and  elegance  of  his  Latin  style ; 
and  even  in  the  more  questionable  accomplishment  of  Latin 
versification  he  was  such  •  a  proficient  that  once  during  his 
thirteenth  year  (upon  a  sudden  emergency  caused  by  the 
unexpected  illness  of  a  schoolfellow,  who  was  to  have  delivered  a 
Latin  poem  at  the  academical  exercises),  he  composed  no  less  than 
three  hundred  hexameter  verses  in  a  single  forenoon,  without  even 
one  false  quantity  or  a  single  important  blunder  in  grammar. 

On  his  removal  from  school  to  the  university  he  carried  the 


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Leibnitz.  493 

same  tastes  with  him.  His  masters  in  Philosophy  were  John 
Scherzer  and  Jacob  Thomasius,  father  of  the  celebrated  Jesuit  and 
Philosopher,  Christian  Thomasius.  The  correspondence  which 
Leibnitz  maintained  with  the  latter  on  philosophical  subjects  in 
after-life,  shows  how  earnestly  he  entered,  even  then,  into  these 
philosophical  studies.  In  truth,  it  would  seem  as  if  they  were  to 
him  a  sport  rather  than  a  laborious  occupation.  While  his  more 
mercurial  companions  were  engaged  at  trap-ball  or  cricket,  or 
perhaps  indulging  in  more  questionable  amusements,  Leibnitz 
would  spend  his  vacant  hours  in  the  philosophical  game  of 
"playing  at  categories."  Before  he  was  sixteen,  he  was,  incredible 
as  it  may  appear,  an  adept  in  all  the  mysteries  of  metaphysics  I 
How  completely  this  leaves  all  our  puny  ideas  of  education  behind ! 
How  it  would  horrify  one  of  our  modern  mothers  to  see  the  boyish 
little  face  of  her  only  hope,  puzzling  over  those  deep  philosophical 
problems,  the  origin  of  evil  or  the  conciliation  of  God's  foreknow- 
ledge with  the  liberty  of  man ! 

Of  the  two  professors  named  above,  Thomasius  alone  appears 
to  have  obtained  any  influence  over  the  youthful  thinker.  Thomasius 
was  an  Aristotelian,  but  of  that  more  advanced  and  more  elegant 
section  of  the  school  which,  about  this  time,  had  begun  to  recognise 
the  influence  of  the  new  philosophy.  The  mind  of  his  pupil, 
however,  was  too  independent  to  follow  the  dictation  of  any 
individual.  How,  during  the  progress  of  his  earlier  studies,  he 
had  emancipated  himself  from  the  trammels  of  scholasticism ;  and 
although  he  never  ceased  during  his  life  to  speak  respectfully  of 
the  schoolmen,  and  to  acknowledge  the  services  which  they  had 
rendered  to  the  cause  of  science,  he  entered  the  university,  young 
as  he  was,  a  confirmed  eclectic;  having  already,  after  a  vain 
attempt  to  reconcile  the  Platonic  and  Aristotelian  systems,  settled 
down  into  the  bolder  and  more  ambitious  character  of  an  indepen- 
dent inquirer.  Every  school,  he  felt,  had  claims  to  gratitude  and 
to  respect.  The  Oriental  systems,  under  all  their  puerilities,  had 
helped  to  maintain  that  more  just  and  noble  idea  of  the  Godhead 
which  was  lost  in  many  of  the  more  elaborate  philosophers  of 
Greece:  to  Greece,  on  the  contrary,  we  owe  the  science  of 
Dialectics,  the  most  powerful  instrument  of  inquiry  which  the 
human  intellect  has  ever  possessed :  the  Fathers  of  the  Church,  in 
their  turn,  purified  and  elevated  the  philosophy  which  they  bor- 
rowed from  the  schools  of  Greeee ;  and  the  scholastics  methodized 
the  principles  thus  borrowed  from  the  Greek  philosophy,  and 
applied  them  to  the  support  and  elucidation  of  the  doctrines  of 


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494  Leibnitz. 

Christianity.  "  Many  a  time  have  I  said,"  lie  writes,  "  that '  there 
is  gold  hidden  in  that  dunghill: '  and  I  wish  it  were  possible  to  find 
an  able  man,  familiar  with  this  philosophy  and  with  that  of  the 
Arabian  and  Spanish  schools,  who  possessed  the  ability  and  the 
inclination  to  extract  from  it  the  little  good  that  it  contains.  I  am 
sure  that  he  would  find  his  trouble  amply  repaid  by  the  discovery 
of  many  noble  and  important  truths!"  This  eclectic  spirit 
accompanied  him  through  life.  We  shall  see  hereafter  that, 
although  he  adopted  the  leading  principles  of  Descartes,  he  never- 
theless modified  the  Gurtesian  system  in  so  many  particulars  as  to 
deserve  the  title  of  the  founder  of  a  new  school. 

To  return,  however,  to  the  order  of  the  narrative.  He  took 
his  Bachelor's  Degree  in  Philosophy  at  Leipzig,  in  1662  ;  and,  in 
accordance  with  the  usage  of  German  students,  who  not  unfre- 
quently  divide  their  studies  over  several  different  universities,  he 
spent  the  autumn  of  1663  at  Jena,  where  he  attended  lectures  in 
law,  history,  and  mathematics.  It  was  here,  too,  that  he  laid  the 
foundation  of  the  taste  for  natural  science  which  distinguished 
his  after-life,  by  becoming  a  member  of  a  philosophical  association 
called  "  the  Society  of  Enquirers,"  which  had  been  founded  a 
short  time  before  in  that  university.  He  soon  returned,  however, 
to  Leipzig,  where  the  academical  routine  required  that  he  should 
spend  four  years  before  he  could  receive  the  degree  of  Doctor  of 
Laws.  He  had  already  anticipated  by  private  reading  a  great  part 
of  the  course  prescribed  for  the  interval ;  and  to  the  comparative 
leisure  from  scholastic  studies,  which  he  thus  enjoyed  in  the 
remaining  years  of  his  course,  we  may  trace  the  vastness  and  variety 
of  the  stores  of  curious  as  well  as  useful  learning  which  he  was 
now  enabled  to  lay  up,  at  a  time  when  less  gifted  or  less  laborious 
minds  are  scarcely  emerging  from  the  mere  rudiments  of  academi- 
cal learning. 

He  had  not  yet  completed  his  seventeenth  year ;  but  in  learning 
he  had  attained  the  standing  of  a  man.  At  this  early  age,  rival- 
ling the  English  legend  of  the  boy-bachelor,  he  obtained  (January, 
1664)  his  degree  as  Master  of  Philosophy.  Thus,  by  the  ordinary 
rule  of  academical  progress,  he  would  have  been  entitled  to  his 
degree  of  Doctor  of  Laws  in  1666,  before  he  had  reached  his 
twentieth  year.  But,  in  addition  to  the  distinction  attached  to  this 
degree  at  Leipzig,  it  had  the  further  and  more  substantial  advan- 
tage of  opening  the  way,  in  the  ordinary  course  of  seniority,  to  a 
place  in  the  College  of  Assessors — a  position  of  considerable 
pecuniary  emolument,  as  it  was  to  the  members  of  this  body  that 


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Leibnitt.  495 

all  cases,  consultations,  pleadings,  &c.,  were  referred,  to  be  examined 
and  reported  on.  Perhaps  it  was  felt  that  Leibnitz's  extreme 
youth  disqualified  him  to  discharge  these  duties  satisfactorily. 
Perhaps,  like  many  another  equally  learned  body,  the  assessors 
were  animated  by  some  unworthy  spirit  of  monopoly.  These  are 
still  moot-points  in  the  history  of  Leibnitz.  But,  from  whatever 
motive,  measures  were  taken  by  the  academical  authorities  to  post- 
pone, in  Leibnitz's  case,  the  period  of  eligibility  to  this  office ;  or, 
in  other  words,  to  deprive  him  of  the  ordinary  privilege  of  pre- 
cedence attached,  in  the  order  of  creation,  to  the  Doctor's  Degree. 
Indignant  at  what  he  felt  to  be  an  injustice,  Leibnitz  refused  to 
present  himself  for  examination  upon  such  conditions.  He  at 
once  disconnected  himself  from  the  University.  Soon  after,  he 
quitted  his  native  city,  never  to  return.  And  it  is  a  striking, 
though  tardy,  example  of  the  revolution  of  opinion  or  of  circum- 
stances, that,  within  the  few  last  years,  the  city,  which  thus  dis- 
carded her  most  distinguished  son  at  the  very  opening  of  his 
career,  has,  after  nearly  two  centuries,  awakened  from  her  error, 
and  rendered  him  the  long-deferred  justice  of  a  public  monument. 

Driven  from  his  native  University,  Leibnitz  presented  himself 
at  that  of  Altdorf ,  in  Bavaria,  where  he  was  at  once  entered  for  his 
examination,  and  admitted  (November  5, 1666)  to  the  Doctorate 
with  the  utmost  distinction.  The  thesis,  which  he  maintained  at 
Altdorf  for  his  degree,  was  the  same  which  he  had  already  pre- 
pared for  his  intended  examination  in  his  native  University.  This 
essay,  which  is  published  in  Dutens's  edition  t>f  the  Works  of 
Leibnitz,  is  a  prodigy  of  genius  and  erudition  in  so  young  a  man ; 
it  took  even  the  assessors  by  surprise ;  and  the  brilliancy  and 
success  of  his  appearance  obtained  for  him  the  offer  of  a  professor- 
ship at  Niirnberg,  the  chief  city  of  the  province.  This  appoint- 
ment, however,  he  thought  it  expedient  to  decline,  although  he 
continued  to  reside  at  Niirnberg  for  some  time  afterwards. 

It  was  during  this  sojourn  at  Niirnberg  that  Leibnitz  became  a 
member  of  the  Rosicrucian  Society : — a  step  which  has  been  much 
canvassed  by  his  biographers.  It  is  difficult,  indeed,  to  imagine  a 
mind  like  his  stooping  to  the  puerilities  which  formed  the  objects 
of  this  strange  association.  In  reality,  however,  the  whole  affair 
turns  out  to  have  been  a  joke  upon  his  part,  and  furnishes  occasion 
for  much  merriment  in  more  than  one  of  his  letters.  One  of  the 
rules  of  this  association  of  solemn  triflers  required  that  each 
candidate  for  admission  should  present  a  written  petition,  request- 
ing to  be  enrolled  among  its  members.    Resolving  to  fool  them  to 


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496  Leibnitz. 

the  top  of  their  bent,  Leibnitz,  in  drawing  up  his  petition, 
introduced  every  strange  and  recondite  chemical  and  alchemical 
phrase  that  he  could  remember  or  invent.  There  was  not  a  master 
of  the  science,  from  Hermes  Trismegistus  down  to  Paracelsus,  or 
from  Friar  Bacon  up  to  the  Emperor  Caligula,  to  whom  he  did 
not  appeal ;  nor  an  unintelligible  phrase  in  the  entire  vocabulary 
of  the  Cabala,  which  he  did  not  quote.  It  was  all  a  jargon  of 
signs  and  symbols  and  elements  of  individual  enUlechies  and  universal 
menstrua ;  and  was  quite  as  unintelligible  to  the  writer  himself 
as  it  could  possibly  prove  to  any  of  his  readers.  The  trick 
succeeded  even  beyond  his  anticipations.  Overwhelmed  by  the 
weight  of  learning  in  his  address,  the  simple  Rosicrucians  of 
Niirnberg  acknowledged  their  inferiority.  They  bowed  before  the 
superior  wisdom  of  the  candidate  as  of  some  mighty  adept,  in 
comparison  of  whom  they  were  but  bunglers  in  the  science ;  and 
not  only  admitted  [him  by  acclamation  into  their  body,  but  even 
pressed  upon  his  acceptance  the  office  of  their  secretary ! 

Nor  was  this  learned  foolery  without  its  advantages.  It  was 
at  one  of  these  Eosicrucian  meetings  that  Leibnitz  formed  an 
acquaintance  with  a  wealthy  and  influential  nobleman,  the  Baron 
von  Boineburg,  which  led  to  many  important  results  as  regarded 
his  after-career.  Boineburg  had  been  Minister  of  one  of  the 
minor  Princes  of  Germany,  who  exercised  great  influence  and 
played  a  very  important  part  in  the  political  affairs  of  his  time — 
the  celebrated  John  Philip  von  Schonborn,  Elector- Archbishop  of 
Maintz.  At  the  time  of  Leibnitz's  introduction  to  him,  Boineburg 
had  ceased  to  hold  this  important  position,  but  he  still  retained 
considerable  influence  with  his  master.  It  was  the  age  of  patrons. 
Unassisted  genius,  especially  in  Germany,  had  but  little  chance  of 
rising  into  notice.  Leibnitz,  both  at  this  period,  and  indeed 
through  his  entire  life,  appears  to  have  felt  this  even  to  a  perni- 
cious excess:  he  eagerly  availed  himself  of  the  offers  made  to  him 
by  his  influential  fellow- Eosicrucian  ;  and  the  greatest  genius  of 
his  time  was  content  to  make  his  first  entry  into  life  in  the  nonde- 
script capacity  of  tutor  of  the  baron's  son,  and  secretary,  law- 
adviser,  librarian,  and  literary  factotum  to  the  baron  himself ! 
And  this  at  a  time  when  his  patron  does  not  hesitate  to  describe 
him  as  a  young  man,  whose  "  acquirements  were  almost  beyond 
all  belief."  "He  is,"  adds  the  baron,  "  a  thorough  proficient  in 
philosophy — a  happy  combination  of  the  old  and  the  new  systems. 
He  is  a  mathematician,  an  adept  in  physical  science,  in  medicine, 
and  even  in  mechanics,  to  which  he  is  passionately  devoted !     In 

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Leibnitz.  497 

all  these  He  is  full  of  energy  and  industry.  In  religion  he  appears 
to  be  an  eclectic ;  but  he  is  a  member  of  the  Lutheran  Church. 
The  philosophy,  and,  what  is  more  wonderful,  even  the  practice, 
of  law,  is  thoroughly  at  his  command."  But,  if  patronage  was 
the  order  of  those  days,  it  must,  at  least,  be  said  that  there  was 
free  trade  in  the  commodity.  If  the  independence  of  genius  was 
not  recognised,  its  value  at  least  was  fully  appreciated.  The 
services  of  such  a  man  as  Leibnitz  were  always  eagerly  sought 
after.  As  his  reputation  by  degrees  was  established,  he  was 
invited  to  the  court  of  John  Frederick,  Duke  of  Hanover ;  to  that 
of  Darlach — soon  afterwards ;  and,  finally,  to  that  of  the  Archbishop 
Elector  of  Maintz,  the  most  powerful  of  the  ecclesiastical  princes 
of  the  empire.  It  is  difficult,  with  our  modern  notions,  to  form 
a  just  idea  of  the  position  occupied  by  these  bishop-princes,  who 
united  in  then*  own  person  the  prestige  of  the  ecclesiastical 
character  and  the  material  resources  of  secular  sovereignty. 
Among  them  all,  the  Prince- Archbishop  of  Maintz  was  by  far  the 
most  eminent.  More  than  once  in  the  medieval  history,  the  fate 
of  Germany  was,  literally,  more  completely  in  his  hands  than  in 
those  of  the  Emperor  himself ;  and,  although  the  present  Arch- 
bishop Schonborn  had  succeeded  to  the  office,  shorn  of  many  of 
its  possessions,  and  deprived  of  most  of  its  prestige,  his  personal 
ability  and  the  skill  and  energy  with  which  he  had  organised  a 
national  party  to  resist  the  encroachments  of  Lewis  XIV.,  had 
rendered  him,  politically,  one  of  the  most  influential  princes  of 
the  empire.  Leibnitz,  therefore,  had  long  desired  to  attach  him- 
self to  the  service  of  the  archbishop.  It  was  not,  however,  until 
the  year  1670  that  he  was  successful  in  the  attempt.  He  was 
appointed  member  of  the  High  Court  of  Revision,  at  Maintz,  an 
office  of  considerable  emolument,  and  one  which  it  is  no  slight 
testimony  to  the  distinguished  reputation  of  a  youth  of  twenty- 
four  and  a  Protestant  to  have  obtained,  in  those  days,  at  the 
court,  not  only  of  a  Catholic,  but  a  Catholic  archbishop  and 
elector  of  the  empire,  whose  officials,  ordinarily  speaking,  were  not 
merely  Catholics,  but  even,  for  the  most  part,  ecclesiastics. 

His  official  duties,  however,  at  Maintz,  although  sufficiently 
considerable,  did  not  interfere  with  his  literary  and  scientific 
pursuits.  We  find  him  engaged  during  those  years  in  an  active  and 
varied  correspondence  with  his  old  friend  and  professor,  Thoma- 
sius,  on  the  merits  of  the  Cartesian  Philosophy  ;  in  another  with 
Dr.  Lasser  on  legal  reform ;  and  in  a  third  with  Benedict  Spinoza, 
on  the  improvement  of  optical  lenses,  and  other  similar  scientific 

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498  Leibnitz. 

subjects.  Still  more  carious  is  a  correspondence  in  which,  at 
the  same  period,  he  engaged  with  the  author  of  the  celebrated 
"  Perpetuity  de  la  Foi  sur  TEucharistie/'  on  the  subject  of 
Transubstantiation ;  in  which  (strangely  enough  for  a  Protestant), 
he  undertakes  (upon  strictly  philosophical  principles,  and  from  a 
consideration  of  the  properties  of  bodies,  the  nature  of  substances 
and  accidents,  and  of  the  nature  of  space,  extension,  and  locality), 
to  remove  all  the  philosophical  objections  against  that  celebrated 
doctrine.  And,  in  the  midst  of  these  multiplied  occupations,  he 
was  also  privately  employed  for  his  first  patron,  Von  Boineburg, 
in  various  political  pamphlets,  essays,  and  State-papers,  which 
Boineburg  made  use  of  for  his  own  purposes,  either  anonymously 
or  with  his  own  name. 

One  of  these  will  be  felt  to  have  a  peculiar  interest  at  the 
present  moment :  a  project  for  arresting  the  progress  of  Turkish 
ambition  (which  at  that  time  seriously  threatened  the  peace  of 
Europe),  by  invading  Egypt,  and  thus  creating  a  diversion,  suffi- 
ciently formidable  to  hold  the  whole  Saracen  power  in  check. 
The  plan  is  worked  out  with  a  degree  of  minuteness  quite  wonder- 
ful in  a  non-military  writer.  It  was  prepared  with  a  view  to 
being  submitted  to  Lewis  XIV.,  to  whose  passion  for  military 
glory  the  expedition  was  held  out  as  a  fitting  object,  although  the 
common  interests  of  Christendom  are  also  shown  to  be  fully 
identified  with  its  success.  This  curious  paper — curious,  even  as 
an  illustration  of  the  fertility  of  the  writer's  mind — was  first 
submitted  to  Boineburg,  and  by  him  was  transmitted  to  the  French 
Court.  For  a  time  it  would  seem  that  the  idea  was  seriously 
entertained  there.  Leibnitz  was  suddenly  summoned  to  Paris,  in 
March,  1672 ;  and  was  even  admitted  to  the  honour  of  an 
audience  by  the  "  Grand  Monarque."  But  in  the  end  the  scheme 
was  permitted  to  fall  to  the  ground,  and  it  remained  entirely 
unnoticed,  until,  in  the  early  part  of  this  century,  the  original 
manuscript  was  brought  forward  by  those  who  sought  to 
depreciate  the  genius  of  Napoleon,  as  having  suggested  to  him  the 
idea  of  the  French  expedition  to  Egypt  in  the  year  1798.  We 
may  add,  however,  that  this  notion  is  entirely  unfounded*  It  was 
not  until  1803,  after  the  French  occupation  of  Hanover,  that 
Leibnitz's  paper  was  first  communicated  to  Napoleon  by  Marshal 
Mortier,  who  became  aware  of  its  existence  in  the  Royal  Library  of 
that  city  during  the  time  of  his  command. 

Notwithstanding  the  failure  of  this  project,   Leibnitz  con- 
tinued to  reside  in  Paris.    The  release  from  official  duties  thus 


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Leibnitz.  499 

obtained,  enabled  him  to  prosecute  still  more  actively  bis  mathe- 
matical studies,  and  particularly  to  apply  himself,  in  conjunction 
with  some  friends,  to  a  course  of  experimental  physics.  It  is 
to  this  period  also  that  we  are  to  refer  the  construction  of  a  very 
ingenious  calculating  machine,  which  attracted  much  notice  in  the 
world  of  science.*  A  machine  for  the  same  purpose  had  been 
devised  a  few  years  before  by  the  celebrated  Pascal.  But  that  of 
Leibnitz  was  confessed,  even  by  Pascal's  own  friends,  to  be  entirely 
independent  of  the  previous  invention  and  to  be  far  superior  to  it, 
both  in  ingenuity  of  contrivance  and  in  practical  utility.  Pascal's 
machine  merely  contained  a  provision  for  the  simple  operations  of 
addition  and  subtraction.  That  of  Leibnitz  extended  to  multipli- 
cation, division,  involution,  and  the  extraction  of  square  and 
cube  roots,  and  seems  to  have  been  no  unworthy  predecessor  of 
Mr.  Babbage's  ingenious,  but  ill-fated  invention.  The  years  of 
his  sojourn  in  Paris,  indeed,  appear  to  have  been  the  most  practi- 
cal of  his  life.  In  addition  to  the  calculating  machine,  he  devised 
about  the  same  time,  some  important  improvements  in  the 
mechanism  of  watches,  a  new  and  accurate  method  of  polishing 
lenses,  and  several  other  ingenious  mechanical  contrivances. 

*  The  model  1b  still  shown  in  the  museum  at  Qottingen. 


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«  WATCH  YE,  AND  PRAY." 


LONG  listened  I;  the  preacher's  words  were 
Yet  etern  in  wisdom,  as  befits  the  soul 
Too  apt  to  love  the  risk  and  shun  control 
Of  guiding  spirits.    On  my  heart  my  eyes 
I  turned,  and  sudden  gazed  in  dread  surprise. 
At  last  self  stood  revealed  to  me ;  in  awe 
Of  all  the  sinful  record  that  I  saw, 
A  world  of  woe  I  felt  within  me  rise. 


"  Watch  ye,  and  pray ! n    And  have  I  watched  and  prayed 
'Gainst  these  temptations  that  our  stumbling  feet 
Fall  into,  every  day  and  every  hour  ? 

Far  from  the  Shepherd  how  His  lamb  hath  strayed, 
Yet  for  repentance  He  hath  pardon  sweet— 
And  He  will  make  me  white  as  lily -flower. 

IL 

*'  Lord !  who  didst  pity  sinners,  pity  me  I " 
I  cried  in  anguish,  and  He  stooped  to  hear, 
I  felt  His  Sacred  Presence  very  near — 

And  on  my  soul  His  eyes  looked  lovingly, 

I  lifted  mine,  and  lo !  I  seemed  to  see 
A  yearning  as  for  human  love  and  tears, 
A  look  His  Face  hath  worn  through  all  the  years 

Since  that  eventful  time  in  Galilee : 

When  gazing  with  His  sorrow-laden  glance, 
He  touched  the  heart  of  her  who  came  to  smile 
At  miracles  performed,  in  sceptic- wise — 

Unknowing  that  the  Master's  ordinance, 
Viewing  the  vista  of  the  days  the  while, 
Had  willed  for  her  a  home  in  Paradise. 

Anna  I.  Johnston. 


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THE  ROUND  TOWER  OF  EILBANNON. 
B.y  Richard  J.  Kelly. 

FROM  childhood  it  has  been  my  fortune  to  see,  many  times,  as 
fine  a  specimen  of  a  round  tower  as  time  and  the  ravages  of 
man  allowed  to  remain  in  our  midst.  It  was  situated  at  a  remote 
village,  called  Kilbannon,  distant  some  three  miles  from  the 
ancient  archiepiscopal  town  of  Tuam.  Standing  at  the  northern 
side  of  a  little  graveyard  and  upon  a  perfectly  level  plain,  it 
is  visible  for  miles  round.  Near  it  are  the  ruins  of  an  old 
Dominican  monastery  or  nunnery  (for  it  is  variously  described  in 
old  annals),  and  a  few  yards  across  the  "  boreen,"  which  divides 
them,  is  the  neat  Catholic  church  of  the  parish ;  an  oblong,  sub- 
stantial, slated  building,  erected  by  a  zealous  priest,  the  late  Rev. 
Father  Gibbons,  to  replace  a  thatched  chapel,  which,  in  the  olden 
times,  had  to  be  used  for  Divine  Service.  The  name  of  the  place, 
41  Eilbannon,"  is  indicative  of  its  sacred  origin  and  pious  associa- 
tion ;  and  tradition  ascribes  to  the  ruins  the  fame  of  a  Saint 
Bennan,  who  is  supposed  to  have  been  a  disciple  of  Jarlath,  the 
first  Bishop  of  Tuam,  after  whom  that  See  was  called  in  ecclesi- 
astical history.  St.  Jarlath  was  believed  to  have  been  an  intimate 
follower  of  the  glorious  Apostle  himself,  and  we  may  note,  that 
but  a  few  short  miles,  as  the  crow  flies,  from  the  Church  of 
Bennan  was  the  illustrious  school  of  Cluan-fois,  otherwise  Cloon- 
fush,  founded  by  St.  Jarlath,  and  in  his  time  and  long  after 
known  as  "the  mother  of  many  memorable  missionaries."  To 
mark  that  holy  spot  the  scattered  remains  of  an  old  building  are 
still  to  be  seen,  and  the  little  graveyard  wherein  these  vestiges 
of  a  past  glory  of  scholasticism  now  are  permitted  to  rest  in  all 
undisturbed  sanctity  is  substantially  enclosed  and  protected.  The 
village  of  Cloonfush,  which  adjoins  the  holy  place,  is  almost 
visible  from  Eilbannon,  as  the  surrounding  country  is  perfectly 
fiat,  and  a  vast  stretch  of  level  bog  and  a  low  ridge  of  rising 
ground  alone  intersect  the  view.  From  the  tower  Cluanf ois  must 
have  been  easily  discernible.  A  little  to  the  right  of  Eilbannon,  . 
is  Sylane,  where,  in  penal  times,  the  beloved  "  soggarth"  used  to 
•celebrate  Mass  in  a  sandpit,  which  is  jealously  preserved  from 
desecration  by  the  present  proprietor,  Mr.  Donelan,,  J.P.  Curious 
Vol..  xiv.  No.  159.  37 


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502  The  Round  Tower  of  Kilbannon. 

that  in  his  family  tomb  in  Tuam,  in  the  old  abbey,  should  repose 
the  remains  of  some  sainted  priests,  who  toiled  and  taught  in 
these  terrible  times,  when  the  sacred  mysteries  had  to  be 
celebrated  in  remote  corners  and  crevices,  in  fear  and  trembling, 
with  watchers  on  the  hill-sides  surrounding,  to  give  warning  of 
the  approach  of  the  Saxon  soldiery.  The  names  given  by  the 
country  people  to  these  quaint  spots  show  how  strong  was  the 
rage  of  persecutions  when  such  devices  had  to  be  adopted,  and 
equally  attest  the  great  zeal  of  the  clergy  to  brave  such  dangers- 
as  then  surrounded  the  ministry,  while  they  bear  telling  testi- 
mony to  the  strong  faith  of  .the  peasantry.  The  country  round  is 
fertile  with  such  memories,  which,  it  is  to  be  hoped,  will  suit 
their  beautiful  Celtic  names— given  reverently  to  each  hallowed 
place — never  be  allowed  to  die  out  of  the  popular  mind.  As  near 
the  Kilbannon  Tower  to-day  stands  the  modest  dwelling  used  a» 
a  national  school,  and  as  of  old,  but  of  a  better  sort  incom- 
parably, stood  the  monastery  and  convent  of  the  Dominican  nuns,  it 
occurred  to  me,  while  musing  on  the  change  which  was  wrought 
since  the  good  Sisters  and  Monks  taught  the  children  the  savings 
truths  of  our  immortal  faith,  if  a  time  might  not  soon  come 
when  the  very  same  truths  may  not  as  openly,  in  modern  garb- 
alone  different,  be  imparted  to  the  bright  intelligences  of  the 
youth  thronging  to  the  place  for  instruction.  It  also  suggested 
itself  to  my  mind,  whether  at  the  school,  so  called  National,  the 
children  ever  are  taught  the  meaning  of  those  names  of  place* 
they  hear  yet  around  them  in  the  dear  old  tongue ;  whether  they 
ever  learn  that  the  ruins,  which  they  regard  with  passing  reve- 
rence, are  eloquent  in  the  stories  of  the  past — closed  books,  full 
of  marvel  and  of  mystery,  if  but  open  to  them — and  that  every 
stone  of  the  ruins  could  tell  a  tale,  which  would  move  their 
minds  to  admiration  for  the  but  half-remembered  past.  If  the 
signification  of  these  expressive  names  yet  attaching  themselves- 
to  places  were  but  told  the  children  attending  those  schools,  more 
would  be  done  to  teach  them  the  history  of  their  country  than 
the  printed  pages  of  any  book  authorised  by  the  educational  Rip  Van 
Winkles  of  the  National  Board.  Take  the  case  in  question.  If 
it  were  on  the  programme  to  instruct  the  children  in  the  mean- 
ing of  the  old  names  that  abound  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
Kilbannon,  what  a  fund  of  the  most  interesting  information 
which  their  tender  imaginations  could  develop  into  a  story  of 
attractive  adventure  and  escape  could  not  be  thereby  imparted  t 
Shown  the  ruins  of  the  old  school,  what  a  theme  for  learned 


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The  Bound  Tower  ofKifbannm.  503 

dissertation  on  the  ancient  style  of  education,  the  privations  the 
pupils  endured  for  sake  of  that  learning,  the  sanctity  of  the 
masters  which  shed  a  halo  round  the  island,  their  wonderful 
proficiency  in  patristic  lore  and  marvellous  skill  in  the  delicate 
arts  of  illumination.  Shown  the  tower,  what  a  world  of  learned 
lore  could  it  not  suggest  P — who  built  it  and  its  congeners,  and  for 
what  purpose  P  How  built,  so  that  it  could  withstand  the  ravages 
of  time  unhurt  amid  a  war  of  elements  P  Shown  the  distant 
sandpit  wherein,  in  insecurity  and  unrest,  the  Holy  Sacrifice  of 
the  Mass  used  to  be,  in  the  penal  times,  every  Sabbath  morn 
celebrated ;  what  a  subject  for  never-ending  instructions  on  the 
perils  our  fathers  manfully  bore  to  keep  alive  their  grand  old 
faith!  Such  things  are  peculiarly  the  themes  for  teachers  to 
teach.  They  are  a  truly  patriotic  and  pious  programme  for 
instruction,  and  I  trust  the  day  is  not  far  distant  when, 
untrammelled  by  foreign  prejudices,  every  school  in  Ireland  will 
find  it  its  duty  to  impart  that  saving,  sweet  knowledge  of  the 
glorious  past.  These  were  my  thoughts  as,  standing  beside  the 
old  Round  Tower  of  Kilbannon,  I  saw  trooping  into  the  National 
School  hard  by,  a  group  of  little  children  with  shining  morning 
faces,  bright  with  intelligence  and  interest,  not  creeping  unwill- 
ingly to  school,  but  going  there  with  an  eager  alacrity  which 
meant  work. 

As  the  tower  stood  out  before  me  in  its  attractive  bold  outline, 
it  struck  me  as,  indeed,  an  imposing  structure;  a  noble  monu- 
ment, more  artistic  than  pyramid,   or  any   similar  remains.     I 
could  not  help  thinking  of  all  the  little  I  could  gather  then  to 
mind  of  the  purpose  of  these  buildings,  and  the  builders  of  them. 
That  the  tower  was  not  a  contemporary  of  the  monastery,  whose 
ruins  lay  near  it,  the  most  superficial  examination  of  their  com- 
parative   styles   at  once  proves.      It  is  entirely  of  a  different 
class  of  architecture,  and  of  a  higher  kind  indeed.      Its  very 
massiveness  ill  consorts  with  the  relative  dimness  of  the  other 
structure.     The  artificers  of  the  former  were  men  who  meant  to, 
and  did  build  for  all  time ;  for  it  is  not  improbable  that  the  next 
two  hundred  years,  if  not  more,  will  see  no  material  change  in 
the  old  tower  as   it  stands   to-day,  after  perhaps  a  thousand 
years'  buffeting  of  the  winds,  rain,  storms  and  frosts  of  our 
climate.  Its  height  is  about  fifty  or  sixty  feet,  as  well  as  I  could 
judge  by  the  eye,  and  the  upper  part  is  rather  incomplete :  half 
having  fallen  down,  and  the  whole  wanting,  at  least,  ten  or 
twelve  feet  more  of  the  stone  work.     The  defect  in  the  symmetry 


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604  The  Bound  Tower  of  KUbannon. 

is  not  inartistic  in  the  ruin.  The  door  or  entrance  is,  as  with  all 
those  buildings,  up  from  the  ground  about  seven  or  eight  feet, 
and  it  is  believed  this  was  adopted  as  a  precaution  against  surprise 
and  a  means  of  defence  against  attack ;  for  it  would  be  excessively 
difficult  to  force  an  entrance  through  such  a  well  protected 
opening.  Two  men  could  defy  an  army  in  such  a  pass,  and 
laugh  to  scorn  any  attempts  at  investment  or  assault;  so  long  as 
their  provisions  lasted,  the  place  was  impregnable.  There  are  several 
apertures  at  regular  intervals  in  the  tower,  which  were  for  the  pur- 
poses of  light  and  ventilation,  while  they  serve  to  mark  the  several 
storeys  of  the  building ;  for  that  it  had  such  regulated  divisions  in 
the  interior  is  undoubted.  Some  of  these  buildings  are  said  to  have 
had  an  underground  storey,  and  in  the  Bound  Tower  of  Kinneigh, 
near  Cork,  at  the  entrance  door  was  a  flag  which  admitted  to 
a  dark  chamber,  which  went  down  almost  to  the  foundation. 
That  one,  I  may  add,  is  at  the  base  hexagonal — a  form 
peculiar  to  it.  It  stands  on  a  solid  rock,  which  fact  goes  rather 
to  disprove  the  theory  of  the  towers  being  erected  as  "  mortuary 
monuments."  Needless  to  say,  the  stonework  of  the  Kilbannon 
Tower  is  perfect ;  the  interstices  were  evidently  well  mortared, 
for  even  yet  not  a  pin  pick  in  the  interior  could  you  find  gaping. 
The  stone  used  is  limestone,  the  prevailing  stone  of  the  district, 
and  it  is  most  exquisitely  chiselled  into  regular  blocks. 

I  do  not  suppose  it  will  ever  be  satisfactorily  determined  who 
built  these  towers:  whether  the  Milesians,  Tuaths,  or  Danes; 
whether  Christian  or  pre-Christian.  The  preponderance  of  belief 
attaches  to  their  Christian  origin,  but  I  confess  the  proofs  are  not 
absolutely  convincing.  It  seems  hard  to  imagine  they  could  be 
solidly  built,  and  the  churches,  which  nearly  always  were  erected 
beside  or  near  them,  built  so  unsubstantially  when  compared  with 
them.  We  know  that  when,  at  the  time  of  the  English  Invasion, 
Roderick  O'Connor  built  a  stone  castle  in  Tuam,  it  was  thought 
a  wonderful  piece  of  workmanship.  The  remains  of  a  Norman 
arch  erected  by  him  in  an  old  church  of  that  form,  which  I  believe 
was  wooden,  and  was  destroyed  by  fire  about  the  time  of 
Elizabeth,  and  an  excellent  piece  of  sculpture,  can  be  seen  to-day, 
in  excellent  preservation,  attesting  a  high  degree  of  skill  in 
stonework.  The  stone  churches  which  were  erected  in  the  island 
up  to  the  sixth  century,  have  been  judged  from  their  ruins  to  have 
been  of  a  Saxon  or  "  debased  Roman  "  style,  while  the  style  that 
prevailed  in  the  twelfth  century  was  of  a  pointed  character,  and 
undoubtedly  to  neither  of  these  classes  do  die  towers  belong. 


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The  Round  Tower  o/KUbannon.  505 

Reference  to  them  occurs  in  oar  histories  very  early.  The  Annals 
of  Ulster,  in  a.d.  448,  speak  of  a  terrible  earthquake,  and  men- 
tions that  fifty-seven  of  the  towers  were  then  destroyed  or  injured  by 
its  ravages.  The  Annals  of  the  Four  Masters  mention  the  exist- 
ence, in  the  year  898,  of  the  Turaghan-Angson,  or  fire-tower  of 
the  anchorite  at  Inis  Cailtre,  in  the  Shannon ;  and  the  same  autho- 
rities note  the  destruction,  by  lightning,  in  995,  of  the  hospital, 
cathedral,  palace  and  round  tower  of  the  town  of  Armagh.  In 
the  old  annals  also  recur  the  names  of  such  places  as  "  MMghe 
Tuireth  nabh  Fomoroch,"  that  is,  the  plain  of  the  Fomorian 
tower ;  while  in  the  West,  still  perpetuated,  is  Moyhira — the  plain  of 
the  tower ;  and  Tor  Inis — the  island  of  the  tower.  Etymologically 
considered,  we  can  get  but  a  very  slight  inkling  at  their  meaning. 
In  some  parts  the  towers  are  called  "  cillcagh,"  which,  as  translated, 
means  a  "  fire-temple ;"  yet,  I  am  sure,  an  equally  plausible  expla- 
nation in  another  direction  might  be  hazarded.  Undoubtedly, 
structures  very  like  the  Irish  round  towers  have  been  found  in  many 
parts  of  the  East.  Hanway,  a  famous  traveller,  mentions  four, 
which  he  saw  at  Sari,  round  in  form,  built  of  the  most  durable  mate- 
rial, about  thirty  feet  in  diameter,  and  running  to  a  height  of 
130  feet,  corresponding  curiously  with  ours  in  these  details. 

Pennant,  speaking  of  the  Indian  Polygars,  says  that  they  retain 
their  old  religion,  and  that  their  pagodas  are  "  chiefly  buildings  of 
a  cylindrical  or  round-tower  shape,  and  tops  circle-pointed  or  trun- 
cated." Lord  Valencia  describes,  in  1837,  two  round  towers  he 
saw  at  Bhangulphore,  in  India,  and  which,  he  says, "  much  resemble 
those  buildings  in  Ireland.  The  door  is  elevated  above  the  ground 
by  some  ten  or  twelve  feet,  they  possess  a  stone  roof,  and  four  large 
openings  at  the  summit."  The  Brahmins  had  their  fire  temples, 
which  they  called  "  coil,"  from  "  chalana,"  to  burn.  These  are 
generally  the  chief  grounds  of  the  theories  of  pagan  origin,  as  far 
as  I  can  remember  them. 

It  is  also  said  that  the  towers  were  erected  for  and  used  as 
belfries  in  Christian  times,  and  the  theory  rests  on  the  fact  of  their 
always  adjoining  churches.  Under  the  foundations  of  some  towers, 
when  excavated,  have  been  found  human  remains,  and  I  think  it 
was  at  Kilmacduagh  there  was  discovered,  some  years  ago,  a  skele- 
ton which,  from  its  position  and  some  pious  ornaments  found  with 
it,  might  go  to  prove  the  theory  of  their  being  Christian  burial 
places ;  but  then  if  the  tower  had  a  basement  story,  as  the  Cork 
Tower  had,  it  might  be  possible  to  inter  the  corpse  from  within,  or, 
indeed,  easy  to  bury  one  from  the  outside,  deep  down  under  the 

Digitized  by  VjUUV  Iv, 


506  The  Bound  Tower  qf  Kiibannon. 

foundations,  while,  in  any  case,  we  know  that  either  the  appearance 
of  the  cross  with  the  position  of  the  corpse  would  of  themselves 
conclusively  establish  a  Christian  origin  for  the  burial  The  sub- 
ject of  their  genesis  is  wrapped  up  in  mythical  mystery,  which  it 
seems  almost  impossible  ever  to  clear  up. 

Gerald  Barry  (Cambrensis),  speaks  of  the  legend  connected  with 
Lough  Neagh,  where  it  is  supposed  the  fisherman 

"  Sees  the  round  towers  of  other  days 
In  the  wares  beneath  him  shining ;" 

and  he  says  that  vast  expanse  of  water  was  supposed  to  have 
been  due  to  the  overflow  of  an  enchanted  well,  which  submerged  a 
large  tract  of  country,  "  inhabited  by  a  wicked  race  of  men."  This 
quaint  old  observer  calls  the  buildings  "  ecclesiastical ;"  but  his 
testimony  while  going  to  prove  their  antiquity,  may  also  be  ad- 
duced as  evidence  that  they  were  put  to  sacred  use  in  his  time. 
Yet  it  does  not  seem  possible  they  were  originally  built  for  such 
purposes,  for  it  is  hardly  likely  the  bell-tower  would  be  constructed 
after  so  enduring  and  splendidly-substantial  a  fashion,  and  the 
fabric  of  the  church  itself  comparatively  built  in  so  rude  and 
"  rubbly  "  a  fashion.  In  Kiibannon  the  very  form  of  the  stones 
of  both  structures  is  different,  their  size  dissimilar,  and  certainly  the 
style  of  the  old  monastery  and  church  in  no  degree  corresponds  with 
or  resembles  that  of  the  tower.  It  is  to  be  hoped  some  enter- 
prising antiquary  will  go  deeply  and  philosophically  into  this 
very  interesting  question  of  the  origin  and  purpose  of  those  grand 
old  ruins,  and  taking  up  the  lines  dropped  by  Petrie  and  others, 
who  gave  some  thought  to  the  subject,  establish,  as  far  as  logically 
possible,  some  sustainable  theory  by  whom  and  for  what  were  those 
towers  built.  Much  as  we  should  like  to  consider  them  Christian, 
the  evidence  of  that  origin  does  not  appear  sufficiently  consistent 
to  challenge  contradiction  or  justify  unquestioned  belief.  Much 
as  we  might  wish  to  think  so,  the  cold  dry  light  does  not  enable 
us  conclusively  to  satisfy  inquiring  minds  on  the  debated  point. 
The  mystery  of  the  genesis  of  these  sublimely  beautiful  structures 
is  almost  entrancing.  There  they  stand  in  all  their  simple  gran- 
deur, models  of  archaic  architecture ;  monuments  of  constructive 
skill,  in  a  country  which  can  boast  of  a  long,  pure  civilisation— a 
farther  reaching  record  than  any  other  in  Europe — and  yet  it  is  not 
found  out  how  they  came  to  be  where  they  are.  The  Pyramids 
have  their  dates  of  origin  and  had  their  defined  uses,  and  yet  our 
Hound  Towers  are  a  mystery  to  us.     What  a  subject  for  some 

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The  Round  Tower  of  KUbannon.  507 

enterprising  explorer  and  erudite  antiquary  P  What  a  noble  task 
to  lift  the  mist  of  centuries  and  show  us  whether  Milesian  or 
Tuathan,  Dane  or  Christian  Celt — to  show  us  who  were  the  builders 
of  these  marvellous  towers,  whose  shadows  reach  back  into  remote 
antiquity  and  tell  a  story  of  architectural  advancement,  beside 
which  our  presumed  progress  seems  absolute  retrogression. 

As  I  thus  mused  amid  these  venerable  ruins,  all  sounds  of  the 
hum  of  the  distant  voices  in  the  school  had  died  out ;  and  looking 
thitherwards  I  found  the  busy  place  closed,  and  that  evidently  the 
little  ones  were  dismissed  and  "  the  day's  task  done."  Nay  more, 
it  was  far  on  into  the  evening.  Castlehackett,  the  only  eminence 
for  miles  around,  was  getting  hazy  and  portending  a  coming  rain 
storm.  Not  a  trace  of  the  far-off  peak  of  Croagh  Patrick,  which, 
on  a  clear  day,  could  be  seen  standing  out  in  all  its  bold,  symme- 
trical grandeur,  lifting  its  2,490  feet  of  grandeur  into  the  sky,  could 
be  seen ;  the  curlew  was  shrieking  shrilly  over  the  wild  waste 
of  bog ;  the  rooks  were  speeding  their  noisy  way  to  their  home  at 
Oardenfield;  the  towers  of  the  Tuam  Cathedral  were  becoming 
dimmer  and  dimmer  in  the  hazy  horizon.  Everything  warned  a 
speedy  retreat,  and  cut  short  my  mind-wanderings  and  musings, 
and  counselled  a  conclusion. 


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(    508    ) 


NEW  BOOKS. 

I.  Catholic  literature  in  America  has  received  an  interesting  contribu- 
tion through  the  publishing  house  of  Ticknor  and  Company,  of  Boston. 
It  is  gratifying  to  see  an  essentially  Catholic  work,  issued  by  a  firm 
that  is  not  Catholic  either  in  its  character  or  connections.  It  shows  a 
non-Catholic  interest  in  this  kind  of  literature  that  illustrates  the 
steady  decline  of  anti-Catholic  prejudice.  The  volume  now  under 
notice  is  entitled  "  A  Handbook  of  Christian  Symbols  and  Stories  of 
the  Saints,  as  Illustrated  in  Art."  It  is  a  joint  production,  there  being 
two  names  on  the  titlepage — Clara  Erskine  Clement  and  Katharine  E. 
Conway.  The  name  of  Miss  Conway  is  a  guarantee  that  the  book  is 
a  good  one  for  Catholics  to  read.  This  lady  has  already  been  intro- 
duced to  the  readers  of  the  Ihish  Monthly.  She  is  of  Irish  Catholic 
parentage,  has  written  a  great  deal  on  Catholic  subjects,  is  the  author 
of  a  volume  of  excellent  poems,  all  showing  an  earnest  and  dutiful 
Catholic  spirit,  and  has  been  attached  for  several  years  to  the  well- 
known  Boston  Pilot  newspaper.  A  dedication,  by  permission,  to  the 
Most  Rev.  Archbishop  Williams,  of  Boston,  is  further  evidence  that 
this  is  a  proper  book  to  go  into  Catholic  hands.  Its  opening  part  deals 
with  "  Symbolism  in  Art,"  under  such  headings  as  4t  Symbols  of  God 
the  Father,"  "  Symbols  of  God  the  Son,"  <<  Symbols  of  the  Holy 
Ghost,"  "  Symbols  of  the  Trinity,"  "  Symbols  of  the  Virgin,"  of  the 
Evangelists,  of  the  Apostles,  of  the  Monastic  Orders,  &o.  This  is 
followed  by  some  three  hundred  pages  of  "Legends  and  Stories 
Illustrated  in  Art,"  which  oontain  much  information  that  ail  Catholics 
should  possess,  but  which,  unfortunately,  may  be  called  a  sealed  book 
to  a  very  large  number.  The  contents  of  these  well-filled  pages  show 
extensive  research  and  conscientious  care  in  their  preparation.  In 
some  instances  the  space  given  to  particular  subjects  seems  somewhat 
limited — as  in  the  case  of  St.  Patrick  and  St.  Brigid,  for  example ; 
but  this  is  doubtless  due  to  the  need  of  compression  in  a  work  covering 
so  wide  a  range.  All  persons  desiring  to  know  what  the  symbols  of 
the  Church  really  were,  and  ail  to  whom  the  stories  of  the  saints  and 
martyrs  of  the  Church  are  not  familar,  as  they  should  be,  can  inform 
themselves  sufficiently  for  all  reasonable  purposes  by  a  careful  reading 
of  this  book.  The  substance  of  the  various  narratives  and  legends  is 
concisely  given,  without  any  merely  literary  elaboration,  and  the 
essential  fact  and  feature  of  each  are  plainly  set  forth.  The  book  is, 
therefore,  instructive  in  purpose  as  well  as  interesting  in  character. 
It  is  one  to  be  read  by  those  who  would  learn  as  well  as  those  who 
would  enlarge  the  knowledge  they  already  possess.  Thet  matter 
presented  in  it  is  all  useful  to  Catholics,  and  much  of  it  should  also  be 


Jigitizea  oy  vjww 


SlV 


Notes  on  New  Books.  -  509 

of  value  to  non- Catholics.  There  has  been  need  of  a  book  of  this 
kind,  in  which  the  essence  of  many  books  relating  to  its  main 
subject  could  be  found*  The  work  of  compressing  much  form  into 
moderate  space  appears  to  have  been  successfully  done  in  this  case. 
Mere  verbiage  is  secondary  to  matter  throughout ;  yet  all  the  elucidation 
that  is  really  necessary  is  given.  The  book  is  profusely  illustrated,  and 
in  a  style  of  art  that  shows  both  taste  and'enterprise.  Most  of  the  engrav- 
ings are  reduced  from  paintings  by  the  Masters,  and  all  are  executed  in  a 
creditable  manner.  This  part  of  the  work  compares  well  with  the 
text,  showing  care  in  detail  as  well  as  correctness  in  the  whole.  The 
"  Handbook  of  Christian  Symbols "  deserves  a  welcome  not  only  in 
Catholic  households,  but  from  all  who  would  strengthen  the  founda- 
tions of  Christian  faith. — D.C. 

2.  Messrs.  Benziger  Brothers,  who  have  their  publishing  houses 
in  New  York,  Cincinnati,  and  St.  Louis,  have  sent  us  two  large 
volumes,  strongly  bound  and  clearly  printed,  of  which  we  may  tran- 
scribe the  titlepage : — "  The  Christian  State  of  Life;  or,  Sermons  on 
the  Principal  Duties  of  Christians  in  General,  and  of  Different  States 
in  Particular ;  namely,  of  young  people  towards  God,  their  parents, 
and  themselves,  as  far  as  the  care  of  their  souls  [and  the  selection  of 
a  state  of  life  are  concerned;  of  those  who  intend  embracing  the 
married  state;  of  married  people  towards  each  other;  of  parents 
towards  their  children  in  what  concerns  both  the  temporal  and  spiritual 
welfare  of  the  latter;  of  heads  of  families  towards  their  servants; 
of  servants  towards  their  masters;  of  subjects  towards  the  spiritual 
and  temporal  authorities;  of  lay- people  towards  priests ;  of  the  rich 
towards  God  and  the  poor;  on  the  state,  dignity,  and  happiness 
of  the  poor;  on  the  use  of  time,  and  making  up  for  lost  time; 
on  the  good  and  bad  use  of  the  morning  and  evening  time,  &c. 
&c.  In  seventy-six  Sermons,  adapted  to  all  the  Sundays  and  Holy 
Days  of  the  Year.  With  a  full  index  of  all  the  Sermons,  and  an 
Alphabetical  Index  of  the  principal  subjects  treated,  and  copious 
marginal  notes  by  the  Rev.  Father  Francis  Hunolt,  Priest  of  the 
Society  of  Jesus,  and  Preacher  in  the  Cathedral  of  Treves.  Trans- 
lated from  the  original  German  edition  of  Cologne,  1740.  By  the 
Rev.  J.  Allen,  D.D.,  Chaplain  of  the  Dominican  Convent  of  the  Sacred 
Heart,  Kingwilliamstown,  and  of  the  Dominican  Convent,  East  London, 
South  Africa."  Copious  as  this  description  is,  it  does  not  give  an 
adequate  idea  of  the  rich  and  solid  materials  contained  in  these 
eminently  practical  volumes,  of  which  Dr.  Bicards,  Bishop  of  Grahams- 
town,  says : — tt  I  feel  very  great  pleasure  and  consolation  in  commend- 
ing the  translation  of  Hunolt's  Sermons  to  the  Catholic  public.  I  am 
gratified,  because  I  have  been  instrumental  in  supplying  thoughtful 
Catholics  with  the  means  of  meditating  profitably  on  the  great  truths 
of  their  [religion,  and  particularly  in  supplying  good  priests  with  the 

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£10  Notes  on  New  Books. 

most  valuable  help,  in  discharging  the  arduous  duty  of  preaching*. 
My  consolation  arises  from  the  fact  that  the  priest  to  whom  I  confided 
the  task  of  translating  the  work,  has  accomplished  it  with,  remarkable 
ability.  My  long  experience  of  twenty-five  years  on  the  mission 
enables  me  fully  to  understand  how  difficult  it  is  for  priests,  engaged 
all  day,  and  often  far  into  the  night,  with  the  labours  of  the  confessional, 
and  attending  the  sick,  to  prepare  their  sermons  with  that  care  and 
study  which  so  important  a  function  demands.  They  must  often  feel* 
as  I  have  felt,  the  want  of  a  work  in  which  sound  matter  is  condensed 
in  fitting  order  and  easily  consulted.  There  are  many  admirable 
books  of  sermons,  translations,  and  original  compositions  in  English ; 
but  they  are,  generally  speaking,  too  elaborate,  and  the  language  is 
often  so  polished,  that  attention  is  taken  away  from  the  matter  by  the 
attraction  of  the  style  •  .  The  great  desideratum  is  sound  and  solid 
matter,  plainly  and  simply  put,  that  will  fix  itself  in  the  memory  as 
it  is  read.  This,  it  appears  to  me,  is  admirably  supplied  in  the  Sermons 
of  Father  Hunoit.  This  learned  preacher,  it  is  evident,  had  no 
thoughts  of  self,  but  constantly  kept  before  his  mind  the  purpose  of 
expressing  what  he  had  to  say  in  the  plainest  and  simplest  language 
.  .  .  I  can  hardly  express  the  satisfaction  with  which  I  regard  the 
work  now  offered  to  the  public.  I  wish  it  heartily  the  success  which  I 
believe  it  deserves ;  and  earnestly  commend  it  to  the  priests  of  all 
countries,  where  English  is  the  language  of  sacred  instruction." 
It  would  be  wrong — after  this  emphatic  testimony  of  a  distinguished 
and  experienced  bishop — to  add  more  than  that  our  examination  of  this 
work  convinces  us  that  there  are  very  few  collections  of  this  kind  so 
useful  as  the  present  for  one  of  our  hard-working  priests. 

3.  We  have  often  expressed  our  admiration  of  the  American  Catholic 
Quarterly.  The  latest  number  which  has  reached  us  (July,  1886),  is 
fully  up  to  its  high  standard  of  excellence.  We  have  analysed  the 
list  of  "regular  and  occasional  contributors "  to  this  Review,  and  we 
find  it  comprises  eight  bishops,  eighteen  priests  (of  whom  precisely 
half  are  Jesuits),  thirty  other  male  writers,  and  two  women.  A  third 
woman  has  contributed  the  most  interesting  item  to  the  current  number, 
for  the  "  M.  A.  0."  who  shows  such  minute  knowledge  of  the  Catholic 
history  of  New  Orleans,  can  be  no  other  than  the  author  of  "  Leaves 
from  the  Annals  of  the  Sisters  of  Mercy  "—Mother  Austin  Carroll,  so 
happily  familiar  to  our  readers. 

4.  The  "  Catholic  Monthly  Magazine  "  published  at  Birmingham, 
begins  its  second  half-year  with  an  exquisite  sacred  poem  by  Katharine 
Tynan,  and  a  very  ingenious  paper  by  the  Rev.  Dr.  Henry  Parkinson, 
on  Weight,  Measure,  and  Number. 

5.  The  second  volume  has  appeared  of  the  Centenary  Edition  of 
the  complete  Asceticai  Works  of  St.  Alphonsus  Liguori.  It  contains 
"The  Way  of  Salvation"  and  a  large   number  of  small  spiritual 


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treatises  and  many  series  of  meditations.  Eighteen  solid  tomes  like 
this,  and  then  his  dogmatic  writings  and  all  his  prayers  and  preachings 
and  episcopal  toils  1  Surely  the  holy  Bishop  of  Saint  Agatha  of  the 
Goths  needed  his  tow  against  losing  a  single  moment  of  time,  else  he 
never  could  have  done  and  written  so  much. 

6.  "  A  Companion  to  the  Catechism,  designed  chiefly  for  the  Use  of 
Young  Catechists  and  of  Heads  of  Families  "  (M.  H.  Gill  and  Son),  con- 
sists of  360  pages,  explaining  all  the  questions  of  the  Maynooth  Cate- 
chism. It  bears  the  Nihil  Obstat  of  Dr.  O'Donnell,  Prefect  of  the 
Dunboyne  Establishment.  It  will  afford  great  assistance  to  those 
who  are  engaged  in  the  religious  instruction  of  the  young,  and 
adults  might  derive  much  profit  from  its  perusal. 

7.  Messrs.  James  Duffy  and  Sons  have  just  issued  in  a  volume  of 
130  pages,  "  The  Children's  Mass/'  containing  Morning  and  Evening 
Prayers,  Catholic  Hymns — English  and  Latin — and  Benediction  Service 
of  the  most  Blessed  Sacrament,  with  accompaniments  arranged  for  the 
harmonium  by  the  Rev.  C.  Maher,  of  the  Cathedral,  Marlborough- 
street,  Dublin.  Numerous  practical  instructions  are  given  as  to  the 
management  of  a  Children's  Mass.  Very  many  will  be  grateful  for 
being  thus  allowed  to  share  in  the  fruits  of  Father  Manor's  zeal  and 
experience. 

8.  "  The  History  of  the  Society  of  Jesus,"  by  A.  Wilmot,  F.R.G.S./ 
condenses  into  a  shilling  volume  of  165  pages,  a  very  interesting 
sketch  of  a  history  which  Dr.  Murray  of  Maynooth  calls  somewhere  "  an 
epic  theme."  Mr.  Wilmot  has  shown  great  diligence  in  collecting,  and 
great  skill  in  condensing  his  materials.  He  does  not  seem  to  be 
acquainted  with  the  most  satisfactory  work  on  the  subject  which  exists 
in  English:  "The  Jesuits:  their  Foundation  and  History,"  by  B.N. 
(Messrs.  Burns  and  Oates).  By  means  of  a  clear,  terse  style  and 
compactly  printed  double  columns,  this  work  gives  in  two  volumes  the 
pith  of  all  the  tomes  of  Oretineau-Joly  and  much  additional  matter. 
We  are  not  sure  that  this  excellent  history  has  attracted  the  attention 
it  deserves.  Some  newspaper  "  Answers  to  Correspondents"  revealed 
lately  that  "B.  N."  is  Miss  Barbara  Neave.  She  deserves  the  grati- 
tude of  all  who  are  interested  in  the  subject  of  her  admirable  work, 
to  which  Mr.  Wilmot's  sketch  will  serve  as  an  introduction. 

9.  "  Six  Seasons  on  our  Prairies  and  Six  Weeks  in  our  Rockies,'9 
by  the  Rev.  Thomas  J.  Jenkins  (published  by  Rogers  of  Louisville), 
gives  a  very  lively  account  of  sundry  out-of-the-way  places  in  the 
United  States.  The  writer  has  a  graphic  style,  a  vivid  fancy,  and  a 
kindly  heart.  His  descriptions  have  the  charm  of  novelty  even  for 
Americans ;  but  for  us  stay-at-home  Europeans  it  is  indeed  emphati- 
cally a  new  world.  The  fervent  piety  of  the  priest  shows  itself  unobtru- 
sively all  through  in  the  most  amiable  guise. 

10.  The  same  zealous  American  priest  has  "  addressed  to  Catholic 


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512  Notes  on  New  Books. 

parents  n  a  brochure  of  a  hundred  pages  on  "  The  Judges  of  the  Faith 
and  the  Godless  Schools,"  which  truthfully  describes  itself  as  "  a  com- 
pilation of  evidence  against  secular  schools  all  the  world  over,  especially 
against  common  state  schools  in  the  United  States  of  America, 
wherever  entirely  withdrawn  from  the  influence  of  the  authority  of 
the  Catholic  Church.'9  This  work  has  been  cordially  approved  by 
Gardi  nal  Gibbons  of  Baltimore,  and  Bishop  OTarrell  of  Trenton. 

11.  The  newest  issue  of  The  O'Connell  Press  Popular  Library  gives 
for  threepence  "  The  Bit  o'  Writin'  and  the  Ace  of  Clubs,"  by  Michael 
Banim,  the  younger  brother  of  the  O'Hara  Family. 

12.  "The  Life  and  Times  of  St.  Patrick!  Apostle  of  Ireland,"  by 
Monsignor  Gradwell  (Preston:  E.  Buller)  might,  we  think,  have 
hinted  on  the  titlepage  that  it  is  only  a  beginning,  chapter  first,  treat- 
ing of  the  Saint's  parentage  and  birth.  It  is  very  interesting.  "We 
trust  Monsignor  Gradwell  will  continue  his  study  of  the  Christian 
antiquities  of  Lancashire. 

13.  Herder  of  Friburg  has  sent  us  a  finely  printed  edition  of  the 
Cornelii  Nepotis  Vita,  edited  for  schools  by  Dr.  Gitlbauer,  Professor 
in  the  University  of  Vienna.  The  Herder  publishing  firm  has 
several  branch  houses  in  the  United  States ;  and  their  work  is  issued 
with  an  English  vocabulary  of  forty  pages,  which  is  very  accurately 
printed. 

14.  "  Among  the  Fairies  "  by  the  author  of  "  Alice  Leighton,"  has 
reached  a  new  edition,  which  Messrs.  Burns  and  Oates  have  brought 
out  with  their  usual  good  taste.  It  is  bright  and  pretty  both  within 
and  without,  and  will  gladden  and  improve  many  young  hearts. 


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(    513    ) 


MARIGOLD. 

A    ROMANCE   IN   AN   OLD   GARDEN. 

In  Four  Chapters. 

by  rosa  mulholland, 

AVTHOft  0»  ''YAOftANT  TBBSn,"  M  ULLUTT, M  "XASCKLLA  OftACB,"  HVU,  BTO. 

Chapter  I. 

"  A  S  great  a  beauty  of  a  rose  as  ever  I  seen  in  my  born  days ! " 
XX  ft***!  °ld  Peter  Lally,  straightening  bis  bent  back,  and 
gazing  tenderly  at  the  exquisite  bloom,  which  was  the  product  of 
his  skill.  "  To  think  that  the  likes  of  it  must  ever  and  always  be 
sold  to  the  stranger,  and  never  a  master  or  mistress  at  Hildebrand 
Towers  to  take  pride  out  o'  it ! " 

The  old  gardener  sighed  impatiently,  and  gazed  around  on  the 
mossy  lawns,  glowing  parterres,  and  verdant  slopes  fringed  with 
flowers,  which  had  been  to  him  as  a  little  kingdom  for  sixty  years. 
Everything  was  in  perfect  order,  not  a  leaf  nor  a  pebble  out  of 
its  place ;  even  the  ivy  on  the  walls  of  the  Towers  was  clipped 
trim  and  close,  and  the  urns  on  the  quaint  old  balustrade  were 
blazing  with  oleanders.  No  one  could  have  supposed  that  Hilde- 
brand Towers  had  been  long  almost  as  deserted  and  forgotten  by 
the  world  as  the  far-famed  palace  of  the  Sleeping  Beauty. 

A  young  woman  was  walking  slowly  through  the  deep  purple- 
green  shade  of  an  ancient  mossy  avenue,  that  led  up  from  one  of 
the  entrance-gates  towards  the  gardens  of  the  Towers.  For  years 
no  wheels  had  cut  the  soft  green  turf  under  her  feet,  over  which 
the  trees  met  and  the  sunbeams  flickered.  Behind  the  solitary 
figure  the  path  lost  itself  in  a  rich  gloom,  and  there  was  a  dreamy 
mystery  in  the  air,  as  the  girl  moved  slowly  and  thoughtfully 
through  the  solitude.  The  thrush  uttered  a  few  lazy  notes,  and  a 
blue  dragon-fly  perched  on  the  feathery  grass ;  but  no  other  sound 
or  movement  disturbed  the  stillness  of  the  spot. 

The  girl's  graceful  figure  was  clothed  in  a  gown  of  homely 
print ;  a  faded  scarlet  shawl  was  folded  across  her  bosom,  and  tied 
loosely  round  her  waist ;  her  coarse  straw  bonnet  had  fallen  back- 
ward on  her  shoulders,  leaving  uncovered  a  ripe  sunburned  face, 
Vol.xit.No.160.    October,  1886.  38 


514  Marigold. 

and  golden  head.  She  carried  a  large  round  basket,  which  dragged 
upon  the  turf  as  she  walked.  Leaving  the  avenue,  she  threaded 
a  maze  of  winding  paths,  and  opened  a  little  green  door  in  the 
high  jasmine-covered  wall  of  a  vast  old-fashioned  garden,  where 
roses  and  tall  lilies  sheltered  under  apple  trees,  and  where  the  rich 
perfume  in  the  air  accounted  for  the  enthusiastic  humming  of  the 
bees. 

"  Peter ! "  she  cried,  "  Peter  Lally,  I  am  come  to  see  you  I n 
and  went  calling  on,  by  peach-covered  walls,  under  ripe  pears  that 
hung  down  to  her  mouth,  picking  her  steps  between  musk  and 
lavender,  and  startling  flights  of  butterflies  from  the  hearts  of  the 
moss-roses. 

"Why,  it's  Marigold,"  replied  the  old  man,  at  last  rising 
suddenly  out  of  the  raspberry  bushes ;  "  and  glad  I  am  to  see 
your  purty  face,  afther  the  night's  dhramin  I  had  about  you ! 
I  thought  the  Masther  of  Hildebrand  Towers  had  come  home  to 
us  at  last,  and  brought  a  bride  with  him ;  and  I  met  the  lady 
walkin'  among  the  flowers,  an'  a  white  satin  gown  upon  her ;  an' 
when  I  looked  at  her  again,  I  saw  it  was  Marigold !  '  An',  by  the 
powers!'  said  I  to  myself,  ' there'll  be  the  wars  of  heaven  an9 
airth  when  Ulick  hears  of  this ! '  An1 1  let  a  screetch,  an'  took  to 
my  ould  heels !  " 

The  girl  laughed. 

"  You  might  have  waited  to  see  where  I  was  going,'9  she  said ; 
"  for  sure  I  am  that  I  was  running  away  too.  Your  master,  who- 
ever he  is,  would  be  a  bad  exchange  for  my  Ulick,  Ppter  Lally." 

"  It's  aisy  to  talk,9'  said  the  old  man,  shaking  his  head,  "  when 
the  masther's  not  to  be  seen — I  wish  he  was !  Not  that  you  would 
be  a  match  for  him,  Marigold,  my  girl ;  for  the  Hildebrands  is  a 
fine,  mighty  family,  an'  must  marry  as  sich." 

"  You  needn't  say  so  much  about  it,  Peter.  I  belong  to  Ulick, 
and,  if  I  were  a  Hildebrand,  I  would  marry  him  all  the  same.  As 
I  am  only  a  poor  girl,  no  Hildebrand,  in  a  dream  or  out  of  a  dream, 
could  tempt  me  to  give  him  up." 

"  It's  the  right  kind  of  love,"  said  the  old  man,  solemnly. 
"  Stick  you  to  that ;  an'  take  my  word  for't,  everything  you  plant'll 
grow." 

"  But  I  get  all  my  plants  ready  made,  you  know,  Peter ;  besides, 
as  you  say,  there  is  no  Mr.  Hildebrand,  and  so  we  needn't  fight 
about  him." 

"He's  somewhere,"  said  Peter  Lally,  sticking  his  spade  in  the 
ground  and  leaning  on  it  meditatively.     "Hildebrand  Towers 

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Marigold.  615 

isn't  waitin*  all  these  years,  so  neat  and  so  beautiful,  for  nobody. 
Man/fl  the  time  I  tould  you  of  the  lovely  Kate  Hildebrand,  that 
married  a  poor  man,  and  was  cut  off  by  her  family.  That  woman 
had  childher,  whatever  come  of  them ;  an9  sure  I  am  that  a  grand- 
son o'  her's  11  come  walkin'  in  to  us  some  fine  mornin',  with  the 
Hildebrand  mark  as  clear  as  prent  on  his  face/1 

"  May  be  so,"  said  Marigold ;  "  but  he's  a  long  time  coming, 
and  I  like  the  place  very  well  as  it  is.  Perhaps  I  couldn't  get  my 
plants  so  easily,  if  a  flock  of  grand  people  were  always  sweeping 
in  and  out  of  the  gardens." 

Peter  left  his  spade  standing,  disengaged  his  thoughts  from  the 
fortunes  of  the  Hildebrands,  and  proceeded  to  fill  the  basket  which 
the  flower-girl  placed  before  him.  Long  ago  Peter  Lally  had  given 
a  wife  and  children  to  the  earth,  and  in  return  the  earth  had  given 
him  beautiful  creatures  to  comfort  his  loneliness :  stout  trees  of  his 
own  rearing,  and  fair  lilies  and  roses  whose  innocent  loveliness  had 
filled  the  void  in  the  old  man's  heart.  Over  and  above  his  devotion 
to  his  calling,  the  gardener  cherished  two  prominent  ideas  in  his 
mind.  One  was  a  loyal  attachment  to  the  family,  in  whose  service 
he  had  toiled  for  sixty  years.  His  father  had  been  gardener  at 
Hildebrand  Towers,  and  at  sixteen,  Peter,  spade  in  hand,  had 
entered  the  gardens  where  he  had  since  remained  to  see  the  oaks 
spreading,  the  ivy  thickening,  and  the  Hildebrands  coming  into 
the  world  and  going  out  of  it.  They  were  a  singular  family — 
handsome,  adventurous,  and  remarkable  as  having  often  been  the 
subjects  of  the  strangest  freaks  of  fortune.  The  first  Hildebrand 
had  come  from  some  northern  country  over  the  seas,  having  first 
married  the  widow  of  an  Irish  merchant  who  had  been  his  partner 
in  trading  to  the  Indies.  After  her  second  marriage  the  lady 
inherited  this  property  in  her  own  country,  and  from  some  distant 
seagirt  town  came  sailing  with  her  foreign  husband  to  take  posses- 
sion of  it.  Storytellers  related  how  Hildebrand  the  First  brought 
a  chest  of  gold  with  him,  which  had  to  be  carried  up  the  staircase 
by  six  stalwart  men.  However  that  may  be,  there  was  certainly 
great  wealth  in  the  family,  and  when  the  last  owner  of  Hildebrand 
Towers  died  a  childless  widow,  she  left  a  large  fortune  behind 
her  for  which  no  heir  had  as  yet  been  found.  The  deceased  old 
lady*  good  friend  and  beloved  mistress  of  Peter  Lally,  had  firmly 
believed  that  there  were  Hildebrands  in  existence  who  might  yet 
appear  and  claim  their  own ;  and  by  her  will  she  had  arranged 
matters  so  that  until  the  rightful  heir  should  appear  everything 
must  be  kept  in  good  order  in  the  house  and  grounds,  as  though 

Digitized  by  vjUUV  Iv, 


516  Marigold, 

the  master  were  expected  from  hour  to  hour.  For  years  this  state 
of  things  had  been  going  on  at  the  Towers :  the  gardens  were  trim, 
the  house  was  swept  and  garnished.  People  sometimes  came  out 
of  curiosity  to  inspect  this  waiting  home  and  ask  questions  about 
the  family ;  but  the  watched- for  owner  had  not  yet  walked  in  at 
the  gate,  and  the  world  had  grown  tired  of  expecting  him.  Peter 
Lally  was  the  only  person  who  believed  that  the  expectations  of 
his  departed  mistress,  with  regard  to  the  heir,  would  be  realised. 
Most  people  shook  their  heads  incredulously  when  they  were 
spoken  of,  and  looked  for  the  day  when  the  property  would  be 
divided  among  distant  connections  of  the  family. 

The  other  prevailing  sentiment  of  Peter's  mind  was  a  tender 
interest  in  the  fate  of  Ulick  and  Marigold,  who  had  long  looked 
on  him  as  a  friend.  The  fortunes  of  these  two  young  people  were 
singularly  alike:  each  was  alone  in  the  world,  and  a  certain 
sympathy,  sprung  from  this  circumstance,  had  drawn  them  together. 
Marigold  was  the  child  of  a  poor  gentleman,  who  had  come,  sick 
and  a  stranger,  to  a  roadside  cottage,  standing  between  Hildebrand 
Towers  and  the  town  of  Ballyspinnen ;  and  had  there  died,  leaving 
his  little  daughter  alone  among  the  cottagers.  The  child  remem- 
bered that  she  had  come  a  long  journey  over  the  sea,  and  had  lived 
in  many  different  places ;  but  she  knew  of  no  friend  she  had 
possessed  except  her  father.  She  grew  up  a  waif  among  the  poor, 
and  was  supported  out  of  charity  till  such  time  as  she  was  able 
to  provide  for  herself.  She  had  picked  up  a  little  education,  could 
write  a  good  hand,  and  spoke  and  carried  herself  with  a  certain 
natural  dignity  and  refinement.  Almost  from  the  first,  old  Peter 
Lally  had  taken  an  interest  in  her,  paying  her  small  sums  for 
weeding  flower-beds,  and  making  many  an  easy  job  for  her  small 
fingers,  in  order  that  she  might  early  taste  the  sweets  of  independ- 
ence. As  she  grew  older,  he  instructed  her  in  the  art  of  garden- 
ing, and  taught  her  to  make  an  honest  livelihood  by  selling  plants 
and  flowers  in  the  town.  Marigold  (as  the  old  man  had  named 
her,  because  her  name  was  Mary  and  her  hair  like  gold)  had  her 
special  customers  in  Ballyspinnen,  whose  greenhouses  and  window- 
gardens  were  entrusted  to  her  care.  Her  own  home  was  a  tiny, 
spotless  room  in  a  cottage,  half*  way  between  the  gardens  and  the 
town,  and  was  wont  to  contain  little  besides  Marigold  herself,  1  er 
flowers,  and  a  few  sunbeams.  When,  some  four  or  five  years  ago, 
Ulick  had  arrived,  a  tall,  awkward  youth,  to  seek  his  fortune  in 
Ballyspinnen,  the  happy,  flower-crowned  face  of  little  Marigold 
had  met  him  on  the  high  road  with  the  smile  of  a  friend.  Friend- 

Digitized  by  vJUUv  Lv, 


Marigold.  517 

lees,  travel-soiled,  and  hungry,  he  had  fallen  in  despair  by  the 
wayside,  when  she  had  shared  her  dinner  with  him,  and  placed  all 
her  little  money  in  his  hands. 

Ulick  was  now  a  clerk  in  a  business-house  in  the  town,  having 
risen  from  the  post  of  messenger ;  but,  then,  he  was  only  a  vagrant 
who  had  ventured  forth  from  a  workhouse,  determined  to  fight  his 
way  in  the  world.  The  friendship  made  between  pity  and  gratitude 
on  the  high  road  had  never  been  broken,  and  the  years  which  had 
made  man  and  woman  of  these  two  had  endeared  them  to  one 
another  with  a  love  that  was  everything  to  each. 

"  Let  the  basket  stand  here,  Peter  Laity,"  said  Marigold ;  "  for 
I  want  to  go  round  to  Poll  Hackett,  and  see  my  chickens/'  And 
Peter  returned  to  his  spade ;  while,  by  many  winding  paths.  Mari- 
gold reached  the  back  of  the  old  house,  where,  at  an  open  window, 
sat  the  housekeeper  of  the  Towers  at  her  needle-work,  with  one 
eye  on  the  poultry-yard  and  the  other  on  a  neighbouring  kitchen- 
garden.  Poll  Hackett  was  a  buxom,  lively  widow,  as  fond  of 
variety  in  her  thoughts  and  opinions,  as  of  colours  in  the  pattern 
of  her  dress.  It  was  a  real  pleasure  to  her  to  change  her  mind, 
and  a  still  greater  pleasure  to  invent  and  explain  her  admirable 
reasons  for  doing  so.  As  she  had  many  lonely  hours  sitting  in  the 
vacant  old  house  in  hourly  expectation  of  an  imaginary  master,  she 
must  have  been  sadly  in  need  of  occupation  for  her  active  mind, 
had  it  not  been  for  this  talent  of  constructing  and  demolishing, 
and  reconstructing  her  beliefs  and  opinions  on  all  matters  that 
came  under  her  notice.  Whether  or  not  the  race  of  Hildebrand 
should  be  looked  upon  as  extinct,  was  a  question  upon  which  she 
was  never  weary  of  ringing  the  changes;  and  her  feelings  of 
friendship  towards  Peter  Lally  fluctuated  with  her  convictions  on 
this  subject.  After  a  long  gossip  with  Peter  over  the  matter,  she 
returned  to  her  solitary  sewing,  inflamed  with  ardent  expectation 
of  the  coming  of  the  unseen  and  unknown  being  in  whom  the  old 
man  put  his  faith.  She  had  been  even  known  to  go  so  far  as  to 
air  the  sheets  in  the  handsomest  bedchamber,  and  fill  the  larder 
with  provisions,  which  she  herself  had  been  afterwards  obliged  to 
consume.  At  such  times  as  this,  her  affection  for  Peter  Lally  was 
as  lively  as  her  sympathy  with  his  sentiments ;  and  the  only  fault 
visible  to  her  in  his  character,  was  a  too  great  carelessness  in  his 
preparations  for  so  great  an  event  as  the  arrival  of  the  master  of 
Hildebrand  Towers. 

"  There  you  go/'  she  would  cry,  "  landin'  off  the  flowers  to 
yon  girl,  to  be  scattered  over  the  country,  instead  of  makin'  your . 

Digitized  by  VjvJVJVt  Iv, 


518  Marigold. 

greenhouse  shelves  look  handsome  for  the  man  that  owns  them. 
He'll  take  you  at  a  short  yet,  Peter,  an'  I  wouldn't  wonder  if  it 
was  this  very  night  of  all  nights  that  he  would  oome  walkin'  in, 
aslrin'  for  his  dinner ;  an'  never  a  bokay  you'd  have  to  put  on  the 
table." 

"Aisy,  woman,  aisy!"  Peter  would  say;  "he  won't  come 
just  that  suddent  but  what  we'll  have  time  to  dig  the  potatoes  and 
lay  the  cloth." 

The  next  day,  however,  Poll  Hackett  was  sure  to  be  in  a  state 
of  irritation,  because  the  sheets  had  been  aired  in  vain,  and  she  had 
made  an  unnecessary  sacrifice  of  her  favourite  pullet.  Before  even- 
ing she  was  sure  the  master  was  dead,  and  would  never  appear,  and 
the  following  day  she  was  certain  he  had  never  been  born.  Having 
adopted  this  view  of  the  question,  she  at  once  set  to  work  to  invent 
her  reasons  for  having  done  so ;  by  the  end  of  the  week  she  was 
ready  to  die  for  her  faith  in  the  utter  extinction  of  the  race  of 
Hildebrand  from  the  earth ;  and  the  next  time.  Peter  I<ally  came 
in  her  way,  she  tossed  her  head  in  disdain,  and  would  scarcely 
speak  to  him. 

This  variable  dame  now  met  Marigold  with  smiles  of  welcome, 
and  fluttering  out  to  the  poultry  yard  in  gown  of  brilliant  stripes, 
and  flowing  cap-ribbons,  proceeded  to  count  six  little  gold-feathered 
chickens  into  the  young  girl's  lap. 

"  They'll  be  quite  a  little  fortune  for  you  towards  housekeep- 
ing," she  said ;  "  but  you  musn't  handle  them  too  much.  Gome 
into  the  house  and  rest  yourself  a  bit.  Sure  it's  as  good  as  my 
own  house  to  ask  anyone  I  like  into ;  for  it  was  only  yesterday  I 
made  up  my  mind  that  there  will  never  be  a  master  nor  mistress 
here  but  myself." 

" Take  me  up  to  the  handsomest  rooms  then,"  said  Marigold; 
"  for  I  have  a  fancy  to  walk  through  them  this  evening." 

Poll  led  the  way,  and  Marigold's  auburn  head  glimmered  along 
the  old  brown  winding  passages,  which  brought  them  to  the  front 
of  the  house.  The  flower-girl  took  her  way  through  the  old- 
fashioned  but  beautifully  kept  chambers,  walking  solemnly  round 
the  dining-room,  with  its  dark  panels  and  shining  bronzes,  and 
studying  the  faces  of  the  dead  Hildebrands  that  gleamed  out  of 
the  twilight  on  the  walls,  intensifying  the  air  of  solitude  in  the 
place  with  the  fixed  gaze  of  their  black  lack-lustre  eyes.  She  visited 
the  drawingroom,  with  its  long  polished  floor,  queer  old  china,  and 
faded  satin  furniture,  stepping  lightly,  and  touching  delicate 
ornaments  softly  with  her  finger-tips,  as  if  she  liked  the  contact 

Digitized  by  vjUUV  I  v. 


Marigold.  519 

with  anything  that  was  dainty  and  refined.  Poll  Hackett  hurried 
her  on,  however,  to  a  certain  wardrobe  chamber,  where  hung  many 
rich  gowns  and  draperies,  which  were  the  housekeeper's  pride  and 
delight.  Poll  was  glad  of  any  excuse  to  shake  these  out  and 
admire  their  varieties,  and  she  now  threw  a  rusty  satin  robe  over 
Marigold's  peasant  dress,  hung  a  tarnished  gold-striped  Indian 
shawl  upon  her  shoulders,  and  a  veil  of  coffee-coloured  lace  upon 
her  head.  Seeing  her  reflection  in  a  long  antique  glass,  Marigold 
caught  the  spirit  of  the  fun,  laughed  merrily,  snatched  up  a  huge 
spangled  fan,  and  swept  about  the  room  with  a  comic  assumption 
of  dignity.  • 

"  Iff s  a  quare  long  time/'  cried  Poll,  enraptured,  "  since  satin 
tails  whisked  over  yon  stairs  to  the  drawV-room.  Gome  down, 
Lady  Madam !  come  down  !  and  let  the  poor  ould  gimcracks  see 
the  sight  of  a  misthress  among  them  again !  " 

Marigold  laughed  and  obeyed ;  and  in  a  few  minutes  she  was 
walking  up  and  down  the  deserted  drawingroom,  giving  mock 
commands  to  Poll,  in  a  voice  and  with  a  manner  that  made  the 
housekeeper  stare. 

"  Well,  well  I  "  gasped  Mrs.  Hackett  at  last,  wiping  her  eyes, 
"  it's  in  the  blood,  I  suppose.  See  what  it  is  to  be  come  of  gentle- 
folks." 

"  Fm  tired  of  it,  Poll/'  said  Marigold,  pullin  g  off  her  veil,  "  and 
I  don't  want  to  be  reminded  that  I  come  of  gentlefolks.  I  belong 
to  poor  folks." 

She  sat  down  on  a  couch,  and  gathered  up  the  Indian  shawl  on 
her  arms ;  the  fun  had  dropped  away  from  her  with  her  veil,  and 
she  sat  now  gazing  before  her  with  an  abstracted  look  on  her  face. 

"I  don't  know  where  it  comes  from,"  she  said,  "or  what  it 
means,  but  I  feel  now  as  if  I  had  surely  worn  clothes  like  these 
before,  and  sat  in  a  chair  like  this,  and  wrapped  such  another 
shawl  about  my  shoulders.  It  never  could  have  been  me ;  perhaps 
it  was  my  mother,  though  I  do  not  remember  her,  or  know  any- 
thing about  her.  Here,  Poll  Hackett/1  she  said,  throwing  off 
shawl  and  gown  and  flinging  them  to  the  housekeeper,  "take 
these,  and  never  make  such  a  fool  of  me  again  1 " 

Marigold  walked  out  of  the  house  and  back  to  the  gardens, 
where  Peter  Lally  put  the  basket  of  plants  on  her  head,  bade  her 
good  evening,  and  closed  the  garden-gate  behind  her. 

She  was  crossing  a  mossy  glade,  which  formed  a  green  terraced 
recess  between  two  groves  of  ancient  trees,  when  she  saw  a  figure 
coming  to  meet  her.  It  was  Ulick,  who  took  the  basket  from  her 
head,  sayivg— 


030  Marigold. 

"  I  hope  I  shall  soon  take  it  down  for  good.  Let  it  stand  here 
a  little,  while  we  enjoy  ourselves." 

"  You  most  not  despise  my  flowers,  or  I  shall  think  you  are 
ashamed  of  me." 

"  You  shall  have  as  many  as  you  please  in  your  little  garden 
and  in  your  windows,  but  you  shall  not  wear  them  any  more 
upon  your  head/' 

He  took  her  hand,  and  they  sat  upon  an  old  moss-eaten  stone 
seat,  under  shelter  of  a  venerable  sun-dial,  the  roses  and  geraniums 
at  their  feet.  Ulick  had  a  fine,  intelligent  faoe,  and  a  look  of 
manly  independence  in  his  bearing ;  he  did  not  seem  famished,  nor 
miserable,  nor  dispirited  now. 

"  Ah,  Ulick,"  said  Marigold,  "  when  I  see  you  looking  every 
day  more  and  more  like  a  gentleman,  I  often  wonder  how  you 
content  yourself  with  me.w 

"  And  oh,  Marigold,"  said  Ulick,  "  when  I  remember  the  day 
you  gave  your  dinner  on  the  road  to  a  poor  ragged  boy,  I  can 
hardly  believe  that  you,  who  are  come  of  gentlefolks,  do  not  cut 
my  acquaintance." 

"  But  you  are  come  of  gentlefolks  yourself,  Ulick." 

"  And  that  is  the  only  thing  that  interests  you  about  me  P  " 

"Oh,  Ulick!" 

"  Gome,  come,  my  love !  let  us  trouble  ourselves  no  more  about 
those  who  are  dead  and  buried,  and  as  unknown  to  us  as  to  the 
rest  of  the  world.  We  were  well  met,  and  we  have  been  and  are 
going  to  be  very  happy.  I  have  seen  a  little  cottage  that  will 
suit  us  exactly,  and  in  a  few  weeks  more " 

"  You  can't  afford  it  yet,  Ulick." 

"  But  I  can,  Marigold ;  I  have  got  a  rise  in  my  salary,  and  I 
can,  and  I  will." 


Chapter  II. 

Marigold  was  sitting  in  her  own  little  room,  sewing  busily  at  a 
dress  which  lay  across  her  knees.  It  was  of  a  pretty  light  grey 
woollen  material,  and,  by  the  evident  pains  she  took  with  the 
stitching  and  folding  and  gathering,  the  making  of  this  gown  was 
an  important  affair.  Marigold  did  not  say,  even  to  herself,  that 
it  was  her  wedding  dress,  yet  visions  of  a  figure,  not  unlike  her 
own,  clad  in  this  robe,  and  standing  proudly  beside  another  person 

Digitized  by  VjVJOVw  Iv, 


Marigold.  521 

who  scarcely  knew  her  in  such  delicate  attire,  did  rise  up  again 
and  again  within  her  mind  while  she  worked.  Glimpses  of  the 
same  figure,  moving  about  a  pretty  home,  flitted  also  across  the 
background  of  her  thoughts ;  for  this  would  be  her  holiday  dress 
for  many  a  day  to  come,  and  Flick  had  almost  taken  that  coveted 
cottage,  in  which  they  two  were  to  be  happy  for  the  rest  of  their 
lives.  As  Marigold  worked,  she  thought  proudly  and  tenderly  of 
Flick's  faithfulness  and  devotion  to  herself.  Once  he  and  she  had 
been  equals,  but  now  it  was  a  different  state  of  things,  and  the 
rising  business  clerk  might  have  chosen  a  wife  from  among  many 
who  looked  down  on  the  poor  flower-girl.  There  was  scarcely 
anyone  besides  herself  and  Peter  Lally  who  knew  what  Flick  had 
been  some  five  or  six  years  ago,  or  of  that  meeting  on  the  high- 
road, the  recollection  of  which  remained  so  vividly  upon  the  young 
man's  mind. 

"  Ah,  if  I  had  only  pushed  myself  into  some  more  respectable 
employment/'  thought  Marigold ;  "  if  I  had  been  a  clever  dress- 
maker, or  a  shopwoman,  and  worn  stylish  clothes,  no  one  would 
then  ask  where  I  came  from,  or  what  right  I  had  to  lower  a 
respectable  young  man  by  presuming  to  marry  him.  As  for  my 
poor  father's  being  a  gentleman,  nobody  ever  thinks  of  that,  or 
whether  I  can  write  a  good  hand,  or  speak  English.  I  am  simply 
a  friendless  girl,  who  carries  a  basket  of  flowers  through  the  streets, 
and  wears  a  plain  print  gown,  and  a  faded  shawl.  Fm  sure  I 
need  not  care  for  myself,  since  Flick  does  not  care ;  and  many  a 
time  he  has  told  me  that  I  was  far  more  of  a  lady  than  the  girls 
who  make  so  much  fuss  about  him,  with  all  their  fashionable 
finery.  I  remember  he  said  to  me  once: — 'How  much  more 
becoming  is  this  load  of  fresh  flowers  on  your  head,  than  that 
miserable  little  bonnet  covered  with  artificials,  that  I  have  just 
passed  on  the  road ! '  I  ought  to  think  of  that,  and  be  content 
with  myself :  only  I  do  hope  that  his  employer  won't  be  angry 
when  he  hears  of  the  marriage,  and  think  less  of  him  on  account 
of  it!" 

The  dusk  gathered  round  Marigold  as  she  worked  and  thought, 
and  the  firelight  from  the  cottage  kitchen  began  to  gleam  redly 
round  the  edges  of  her  room  door,  which  stood  ajar.  In  the 
kitchen,  Kate,  the  cottager's  wife,  was  rocking  her  baby's  cradle ; 
a  knock  came  on  the  outer  door,  and  Lizzie,  a  milliner  from  the 
town,  came  in  to  pay  a  visit.  Kate  received  her  hospitably,  poked 
the  fire,  and  hung  the  kettle  on ;  while  Marigold,  in  the  inner 


Digitized  by 


Google 


522  Marigold. 

darkening  room,  dropped  her  sewing,  and  sat,  face  between  hands, 
lost  in  her  happy  reflections. 

Kate  and  lizzie,  meanwhile,  fell  to  work  like  true  gossips,  and 
discussed  the  affairs  of  their  acquaintance.  It  was  not  long  before 
they  arrived  at  the  subject  of  Ulick,  and  his  intended  marriage. 

"  I  believe  it's  to  be  very  soon/9  said  Kate. 

"  I  don't  believe  it  will  ever  be,"  said  Lizzie.  "  I  hear  more  in 
the  town  than  the  birds  sing  to  you  about  in  the  country." 

"  What  do  you  hear  P  "  said  Kate.  "  I  like  the  girl,  and  I'd  be 
sorry  for  her  disappointment." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  see  in  her,"  said  Lizzie,  "  but  that's 
not  the  question.  You'd  be  sorry  for  her,  and  others  would  be 
sorry  for  others  they  know  about.  You  don't  suppose  he  has  no 
more  sweethearts  nor  one  ? 

"  I  don't  believe  he  has,"  said  Elate. 

"  You  were  always  a  simple  one,"  said  Lizzie.  "  I  suppose 
you  think  it  wasn't  a  toss-up  with  your  own  John,  whether  he'd 
have  you  or  some  other  girl  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,*'  said  Kate ;  "  I  hope  you're  not  frettin'  on 
my  account,  Lizzie.  Some  one  said  lately  you  were  gettin'  very 
thin.    I  wouldn't  like  I  had  anything  to  do  with  it." 

"Oh,  as  to  that,"  said  Lizzie,  tossing  her  head.  "You  were 
welcome  to  my  share  of  him.  I  couldn't  marry  out  of  my 
station." 

"  I  never  put  myself  above  you,  Lizzie." 

"  And  I  never  put  myself  so  low  as  you,  ma'am,  except  such  as 
now,  when  I  come  out  of  my  way  to  pay  visits  to  my  inferiors. 
However,  if  you're  talking  to  that  young  woman  of  yours,  shortly, 
you  may  tell  her  what  I  demeaned  myself  by  coming  here  to 
make  known  to  you,  that  her  sweetheart  has  left  his  situation,  and 
is  goin'  to  England  on  the  spot — which  isn't  very  like  marryin', 
as  far  as  I  can  see ! " 

"  I  don't  believe  it,"  said  Kate,  "  even  from  so  great  a  lady  as 
you've  turned  out  to  be,  all  of  a  suddent.  An'  if  I  was  you, 
Lizzie,  I  wouldn't  make  so  little  o'  myself  as  to  stay  here  any 
longer." 

"  I'll  stay  till  I've  said  my  say,  an'  I'll  go  when  it  fits  me," 
said  Lizzie,  "  seein'  is  believin',  and  when  Ulick  is  gone,  I'll  come 
back  an'  have  my  crow  over  you.  Nobody  disbelieves  in  his  going, 
nor  wonders  at  it,  but  yourself ;  for  it's  the  only  way  he  can  get 
rid  of  the  girl,  after  all  the  talk  that's  been  about  it ;  an'  it's  not 
to  be  doubted  that  he  could  do  better  in  England  nor  marry  a 

niniti^hvCoOQle 
Digitized  by  vjuuviv 


Marigold.  523 

tramp  of  a  young  woman,  that  knocks  at  people's  doors  with  a  lot 
of  flower-pots  on  her  head ! " 

"I  never  liked  your  jealous  ways,  Lizzie/'  said  Kate,  "  an' 
you've  gone  and  wakened  the  child  with  them !  "  The  mother 
lifted  the  crying  baby  out  of  the  cradle,  and  the  visitor,  seeing 
that  she  could  no  longer  hope  to  claim  Kate's  attention,  marched 
wrathf  ully  out  of  the  cottage,  and  shut  the  door  violently  behind 
her. 

As  Slate  bent  over  the  child,  she  was  suddenly  hugged  from 
behind  by  two  stronger  arms  than  baby's.  Marigold  gave  her  a 
hearty  kiss,  and  then  stood  laughing  before  her. 

"  I  heard  it  all,  Kate,  every  word  of  it.  Why  did  you  not 
remember  the  door  was  open  ?  " 

"  I  wasn't  thinkin'  about  it  at  all." 

"  You* re  a  good  kind  soul,  Elate,  and  I'll  never  forget  it  to  you. 
I  didn't  know  you  cared  so  much  about  me." 

"  Why,  God  bless  the  girl !  what  would  you  had  me  to  say  P 
Didn't  she  put  my  own  John  into  the  same  box  with  your  TJlick, 
an'  me  as  little  to  be  thought  of  as  yourself.  It's  not  true,  is  it, 
about  his  going  to  England  P  " 

"  True !  how  could  it  be  true  P  Give  me  the  baby,  Kate,  for  a 
little,  and  let  me  sit  with  you  here  and  talk.  I  feel  lonely,  some- 
how, to-night,  and  inclined  to  be  angry  at  people.  But  I  won't 
speak  ill  of  your  John,  nor  of  anybody  else.  We'll  talk  nothing 
but  baby-talk,  and  watch  the  sparks  flying  up  the  chimney." 

"  You're  a  different  company  from  Lizzie,  I  must  say,"  said 
Kate,  as  she  seated  herself  contentedly  at  the  fire,  needle  in  hand, 
and  a  torn  jacket  of  John's  upon  her  knee,  prepared  to  take 
advantage  of  the  unemployed  happy  moments,  to  get  a  necessary 
piece  of  work  done.  Between  her  stitches  she  admired  her 
"  company,"  the  baby  extended  luxuriously  on  Marigold's 
knees,  with  rosy  baby-toes,  spread  out  to  the  heat,  and  wondering 
baby-eyes,  fixed  on  the  beautiful  sun-browned  face  and  golden 
head,  which  smiled  and  dimpled  and  shone  above  him  ;  Marigold 
chattering  pleasant  nonsense  to  the  child. 

The  latch  was  lifted,  and  TJlick  appeared  on  the  threshold. 

"  Come  in,  come  in !  "  said  Elate,  beaming  upon  him.  "  It's  a 
late  visit  you're  paying  us,  but  baby  an'  me  are  obliged  to  you  all 
the  same.  It's  a  terrible  thing  that  John's  gone  out,  for  of  course 
it  was  to  see  him  that  you  come,"  and  she  dusted  a  seat  for  the 
guest,  twinkling  all  over  with  amusement  at  her  own  little  joke. 

"  We'll  manage  to  get  on  without  him,"  said  Ulick,  taking  the 

Digitized  by  vjUUV  Iv, 


524  Marigold. 

seat  and  showing  great  interest  in  the  child.  His  face  was  flushed, 
and  he  seemed  possessed  by  an  excitement  which  he  strove  to 
restrain.  Now  and  again  he  glanced  with  a  peculiar  look  at  Mari- 
gold, who  sat  silent  and  happy,  stroking  the  baby's  little  fat  legs, 
and  listening  to  the  conversation  between  her  lover  and  friend. 

"We've  just  been  having  a  visitor,"  continued  Kate,  in  her 
bantering  way;  "an'  a  visitor  that  knew  more  about  you  nor 
either  Marigold  or  me  did.   She  told  us  you're  going  to  England." 

TJlick  started,  and  looked  very  grave.  After  a  few  moments' 
silence,  he  said,  in  an  altered  tone — 

"  It  is  true ;  I  am  going  to  England.  I  came  to  tell  Mari- 
gold." 

Marigold's  hand  stopped  stroking  the  baby's  legs,  and  she 
turned  her  eyes  on  Flick  silent  in  amazement. 

"  But  you  have  not  given  up  your  situation  P"  cried  Kate. 

"  I  have  given  up  my  situation,"  said  Uliok. 

"  Oh,  my  goodness !  "  exclaimed  Elate.  "  And  you,  that  was 
to  have  been " 

"  I  want  to  speak  to  Marigold,  Kate.     I  must  see  her  alone." 

Marigold  got  up,  and,  silently  putting  the  child  in  its  mother's 
arms,  led  the  way  into  her  own  little  room.  There  lay  the 
wedding-dress,  into  which  she  had  stitched  her  happy  thoughts  so 
lately.  The  distant  lights  of  the  town  twinkled  through  the  dark- 
ness beyond  the  window ;  an  hour  ago  she  had  watched  them 
springing  up  like  so  many  joys  in  her  future.  With  the  coldness 
of  deadly  fear  upon  her  heart,  Marigold  closed  the  door,  and 
waited  for  Ulick  to  speak. 

"  Marigold,  you  must  trust  me/' 

The  girl  drew  a  deep  sigh  of  relief.  The  words  she  had 
expected  to  hear  were — "  Marigold,  we  must  separate  for  ever." 

"Yes,  Ulick." 

"  That's  my  brave  girl ! " 

"  Tell  me  more,  Ulick." 

"  I  will  tell  you  all  I  can ;  but  it's  a  strange  affair  this  that  is 
taking  me  away." 

"  I  mustn't  ask  what  it  is,  Ulick  P  "  . 

'"  No,  dear ;  that's  the  trouble  of  it.  I  have  made  up  my  mind 
that  it  is  better  not  to  tell  you." 

"  Will  you  come  back  again,  Ulick  P  " 

"  I  do  not  know.  I  may  come  back — that  is  what  I  hope  for 
— or  I  may  ask  you  to  come  to  me.  I  am  strangely,  wonderfully 
uncertain  as  to  the  future." 

Digitized  by  VjOOQLC 


Marigold.  525 

Marigold  turned  away  her  head  and  looked  out  on  the  dreary 
shivering  lights  in  the  distance.  The  sadden  change  from  happi- 
ness to  desolation  chilled  her.  Some  confused  ideas  of  all  she 
should  have  to  bear  after  Ulick  had  left  her,  passed  across 
her  mind :  the  taunts  of  such  as  Lizzie,  the  heavy  sense  of  loneli- 
ness, the  involuntary  fears  of  her  own  heart. 

"  Is  there  no  help  for  it,  "Ulick  P  " 

"  None  at  all,  love.  Sit  down,  and  let  us  talk  about  it.  This 
has  come  with  as  great  a  shook  upon  me  as  upon  you.  This  time 
last  night  my  head  was  full  of  our  plans ;  I  thought,  going  to 
sleep,  of  you  and  our  little  cottage ;  but  this  morning  brought  me 
a  letter  which  I  think  it  wiser  not  to  show  you.  It  obliges  me  to 
go  to  England  at  once,  and  to  remain  there  some  time.1' 

"  I  did  not  know  you  had  friends  in  England,"  said  Marigold. 

"  I  did  not  know  it  myself.  It  seems,  now,  that  I  have  both 
friends  and  enemies ;  or,  at  least,  there  are  people  who  may  turn 
out  to  be  either.  It  depends  upon  how  things  go  between  them 
and  me,  whether  I  return  here  or  remain  in  England." 

"  Which  way  will  it  work,  Ulick  P  "  asked  Marigold,  fearfully. 
"  Will  the  friends  or  the  enemies  send  you  back  P  " 

"  The  friends  would  send  me  back,"  said  Ulick,  tossing  up  his 
head  with  an  air  of  pride  and  triumph.  "  They  will,  if  they  can. 
But  don't  you  imagine  that  the  enemies  are  going  to  cut  me  into 
little  pieces,  or  to  put  me  in  jail.  The  worst  they  can  do  is  to 
take  away  from  me  the  wish  to  return  to  this  place.  And,  in  that 
case,  the  world  will  be  wide  before  me.  With  you  by  the  hand  it 
does  not  much  matter  where  I  turn  my  steps." 

"  And  England  is  such  a  rich  place,"  said  Marigold.  "  There 
will  be  plenty  of  work  to  be  had." 

"Plenty,"  said  Ulick;  "I  am  not  afraid.  The  worst  of  the 
whole  thing  is,  that  we  must  part  for  a  time ;  our  marriage  is  put 
off,  and  the  future  of  our  lives,  though  they  must  be  linked 
together,  is  uncertain.  If  you  were  a  different  kind  of  girl,  you 
would  take  this  very  badly.  But  you  and  I  have  trusted  each 
other  long,  and  understand  each  other  perfectly.11 

"You  will  write  to  me,  UlickP" 

"  Constantly.  When  I  cease  to  write,  you  may  cease  to  trust ; 
but  not  till  then.  Of  course,  you  must  remember,  however,  that 
a  letter  will  occasionally  miscarry." 

Marigold  lifted  her  head  and  smiled.  The  worst  of  this  trial 
seemed  already  over.  Lonely  she  must  be,  indeed,  for  a  time ;  but 
she  would  not  be  desolate  or  dispirited. 

Vol.  xiv.  No.  160.  Digitized  by  Google 


526  Marigold. 

"  You  know  I  am  an  obstinate  hoper,"  she  said ;  "  you  often 
told  me  so.  It  will  take  a  great  deal  of  your  silence  to  break  my 
Heart." 

"  If  you  want  it  broken/'  said  Ulick,  "  you  must  get  some  one 
else  to  do  it ;  for  I  will  never  try." 

There  was  a  silence  now  which  was  not  heart-breaking,  as  the 
lovers  sat  with  clasped  hands,  looking  from  each  other's  faces  to 
those  distant  lights  of  the  town — stars  which  shone  again  with 
even  more  than  their  old  lustre,  only,  now  and  then,  sinking  into 
a  wistful  glimmer.  Marigold  was  happy,  though  a  period  of 
undoubted  pain  lay  before  her.  It  is  such  an  exquisite  pleasure  to 
an  honest  woman  to  be  supremely  trusted  by  one  she  loves. 

After  a  time,  Ulick  spoke  again. 

"Marigold,  I  must  ask  you  for  those  little  old  relics  of  my 
mother,  which  I  gave  you  to  keep  for  me.  I  must  not  leave  them 
behind  me." 

He  said  this  with  a  certain  difficulty,  as  if  he  felt  that  such  a 
request  might  sound  strangely ;  but  Marigold  found  nothing  odd 
in  his  desire  to  take  these  treasures  out  of  her  keeping.  It  was  a 
beautiful  thought  of  his,  she  felt,  to  wish  to  have  them  with  him. 
She  went  to  a  corner  of  her  room,  unlocked  her  little  box,  and 
brought  forth  a  package,  which  she  placed  in  "Click's  hands. 

"  They  are  all  there/'  she  said ;  "  the  letters,  the  locket,  and 
the  little  bag  of  odds  and  ends.  Open  them,  and  see  if  they  are 
right/' 

The  packet  was  untied,  and  the  contents  laid  in  Marigold's  lap. 
There  were  a  few  faded  letters  tied  up  with  a  ribbon,  a  small  bag 
of  tarnished  silk  and  velvet  containing  some  little  trinkets  and 
trifles,  a  locket  enclosing  hair  and  initials,  and  the  miniature  of  a 
man.  Marigold  fetched  a  light,  and  held  it  close  while  Ulick 
examined  these  treasures  anxiously,  before  sealing  them  up  once 
more  in  a  packet,  and  placing  them  in  his  breast. 

'  After  this  there  were  many  more  words  to  be  said,  and  then 
came  the  parting.  Marigold  went  with  Ulick  to  the  cottage  door, 
and  watched  him  as  long  as  his  figure  was  discernible  in  the  night. 
Ulick  became  only  a  black  streak,  and  at  last  vanished ;  and  the 
lights  on  the  horizon  grew  dim  again,  and  Marigold's  heart  felt 
such  a  dead  weight  within  her  that  she  had  to  stop  a  little  while 
outside  the  threshold,  to  get  her  thoughts  right  again,  before  return- 
ing to  Kate's  fireside.  There  she  must  return  and  talk  about 
Ulick,  or  Kate  would  believe  he  had  really  deserted  her. 

The  baby  was  asleep  again,  and  Kate  was  busy  at  her  patching. 

Digitized  by  G00gle 


Marigold.  527 

Marigold  drew  a  stool  to  the  fire  and  sat  down,  trying  not  to 
shiver,  and  spreading  ont  her  cold  hands  to  the  blaze. 

"  And  so  he's  really  goin*  to  England  P  "  said  Elate,  in  a  tone 
of  wonderment. 

"  He  sets  out  to-morrow  morning  early/'  said  Marigold. 

"  Dear,  dear !  To  think  of  that  Lizzie  being  right  after  all. 
I'm  as  sorry  as  can  be,  if  it's  only  on  account  of  her  crowin'." 

"  She's  not  right  in  all  she  said,  though,  Kate,"  said  Marigold, 
smiling.  "He  is  not  going  away  to  get  rid  of  me,  but  upon 
business  of  his  own  that  cannot  be  avoided." 

"  Of  course  I  know  that,"  said  Kate ;  "  and  you  do  speak  so 
nicely  that  it  makes  a  person  quite  sure  to  hear  you.  I  wish  I 
could  remember,  *  business  of  his  own  that  cannot  be  avoided/ 
I'll  say  the  words  to  them  when  they  come  to  me  with  their 
gossip." 

u  I  wonder  what  makes  the  world  so  unkind,  Kate,"  said  Mari- 
gold, a  little  bitterly.  "I  never  did  those  girls  any  harm.  They 
have  always  been  better  off,  in  a  sort  of  way,  than  I  have  been.  1 
never  grudged  them  their  fashionable  clothes,  nor  their  better 
employment,  nor  their  good  fathers  and  mothers,  nor  their  lovers. 
I  have  always  had  little  enough,  heaven  knows.  One  only 
great  blessing  was  sent  to  me,  and  that  seems  to  make  them 
dislike  me." 

"  Heart  alive ! "  said  Kate ;  "  don't  you  see  the  meanin'  o'  the 
whole  of  it  P  They're  all  strivin'  to  be  ladies,  an'  not  one  o'  them 
can  manage  it.  If  you  were  in  rags,  the  lady's  in  you,  and  it 
shines  out  o'  you  before  their  eyes.  The  beautiful  language  comes 
off  your  tongue  as  natural  as  the  flower  comes  on  the  bush,  an' 
sich  quality  ways  is  hurtful  to  them  that  has  envious  hearts.  But 
don't  speak  as  if  a  handful  of  wasps  was  the  whole  world  around 
you.    We're  not  all  o'  one  temper." 

"No,  no,  Kate;  I  never  meant  to  say  it.  You're  not  the 
only  one  I  know  who  stands  by  me.  Don't  give  me  up  now ; 
for  I  shall  have  a  pretty  bad  time,  I  think,  until  Ulick  comes 
back." 

As  Marigold  sat  there  by  the  fire,  though  she  did  not  realis3 
all  the  sorrow  of  the  future,  yet  a  heavy  foreshadowing  of  trouble 
was  upon  her.  She  felt  lonely,  with  that  peculiar  pain  of  loneli- 
ness which  parting  leaves  behind,  when  time  and  place  of  future 
meeting  are  uncertain.  For  five  years— ever  since  the  period  when 
childhood's  thoughtlessness  had  begun  to  leave  her— the  nearness 
of  Ulick,  with  all  its  protecting  influence,  had  been  a  vivid  reality 

Digitized  by  vjUUV  Iv, 


528  The  Meditation  of  the  Old  Fisherman. 

of  her  life.  To  be  left  alone  now,  so  suddenly,  within  an  hoar ; 
obliged  to  sit  down  and  realise  the  idea  of  great  distance  which  had 
never  occurred  to  her  before ;  to  feel  utterly  incapable  of  forming 
any  picture  in  her  mind  of  TTlick,  in  an  unknown  place  with 
unknown  surroundings;  above  all,  to  think  of  a  great,  unseen, 
unimaginable  ocean,  which  possibly  must  be  crossed  by  her  before 
they  could  meet  again,  under  new  circumstances  and  in  strange 
scenes ;  all  this  scared,  chilled,  and  oppressed  her.  Fortunately 
for  her,  her  life  was  too  active  to  admit  of  her  long  abandoning 
herself  to  absorbing  reflection.  She  bade  Kate  a  cheerful  good- 
night, folded  up  the  pretty  wedding-dress  and  laid  it  away,  with 
neither  sighs  nor  tears,  but  only  some  sprigs  of  lavender  among 
its  folds ;  and,  in  the  end,  fell  asleep  with  a  heart  full  of  prayer 
and  hope. 

Ulick  in  the  meantime  went  his  way,  his  heart  beating  so 
thick  and  high  with  strange  excitement  that  he  scarcely  felt  the 
pang  which,  a  week  ago,  he  should  have  suffered  at  the  thought 
of  leaving  Marigold.  The  feverish  spirit  which  he  had  controlled 
while  in  her  presence  seized  upon  him  now,  and  carried  him  on 
his  way  as  if  swept  along  by  a  wind.  His  mind  was  crowded 
with  conflicting  hopes  and  fears — such  hopes  and  such  fears  a* 
beset  the  soul  of  a  man  when  he  sees  a  prize  of  ambition  before 
him,  which  seems  placed  within  his  grasp,  but  may  yet  be  missed 
and  lost. 


F- 


THE  MEDITATION  OF  THE  OLD  FISHERMAN. 

waves,  though  ye  dance  Yore  my  feet  like  children  at  play, 
Though  ye  glow  and  ye  glance,  though  ye  purr  and  ye  dart, 
In  the  Junes  that  were  warmer  than  these  are,  the  waves  were  more  gayr 
When  I  was  a  boy  with  never  a  crack  in  my  heart. 

The  lines  are  not  heavy,  nor  heavy  the  long  nets  brown — 
Ah  woe !  full  many  a  creak  gave  the  creel  in  the  cart 

That  carried  the  fish  for  the  sale  in  the  far-away  town, 
When  I  was  a  boy  with  never  a  crack  in  my  heart. 

Proud  maiden,  ye  are  not  so  fair,  when  hie  oar 
Is  heard  on  the  water,  as  they  were,  the  proud  and  apart, 

Who  paced  in  the  eve  by  the  nets  on  the  pebbly  shore, 
When  I  was  a  boy  with  never  a  crack  in  my  heart. 

W.  B.  Ybats. 

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529     > 


SIR   SAMUEL   FERGUSON. 
In  Memoriam. 

ON  the  9th  of  August,  1886,  Sir  Samuel  Ferguson  died  at 
Howth,  that  exquisite  little  promontory  near  Dublin,  which 
he  had  specially  loved,  which  he  had  celebrated  in  many  a  graphic 
yerse,  and  which,  under  its  Irish  name  of  Ben  Edar,  figures  in  the 
finest  simile  of  his  "  Congal,"  quoted  at  page  234  of  our  twelfth 
volume.  He  had  attained  his  seventy-sixth  year.  He  was  born 
at  Belfast  in  1810,  the  third  son  of  John  Ferguson  and  Agnes 
Knox.  He  was  educated  at  the  Belfast  Academical  Institution, 
and  at  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  which  in  later  years  conferred  on 
him,  honoris  causa,  the  degree  of  Doctor  of  Laws.  He  was  called 
to  the  Irish  Bar  in  1838,  and  practised  in  the  Dublin  Courts,  and 
on  the  North-East  Circuit.  Though  he  was  outshone  there  by  his 
school-fellows  and  fellow-townsmen,  James  Whiteside  and  Thomas 
O'Hagan,  he  by  no  means  allowed  his  literary  tastes  and  talents  to 
draw  him  away  from  the  study  and  practice  of  his  profession. 
However,  in  one  of  the  most  interesting  trials  in  which  he  was 
ever  engaged,  he  probably  owed  his  brief,  as  leading  counsel,  more 
to  his  personal  and  literary  character  than  to  his  legal  attainments. 
With  Sir  Colman  O'Loghlen  and  Mr.  John  O'Hagan  (the  present 
Judge  O'Hagan)  as  juniors,  he  defended  Richard  Dalton  Williams, 
his  brother-poet,  against  a  charge  of  treason  in  the  troubled  time 
of  '48.  An  extract  from  Ferguson's  speech  on  this  occasion  may 
be  found  at  page  336  of  the  fifth  volume  of  this  Magazine,  in  one 
of  the  articles  devoted  to  poor  "  Shamrock  "  of  The  Nation. 

That  same  eventful  year,  1848,  was  the  date  of  his  marriage 
with  Mary  Catherine,  daughter  of  Mr.  Robert  Guinness,  of  Stil- 
lorgan,  a  relative  of  Lord  Ardilaun's.  Of  the  community  of 
tastes  between  the  wedded  pair  we  have  one  public  proof,  in  a 
volume  concerning  which  the  writer  of  Sir  S.  Ferguson's  obituary 
in  The  Freeman's  Journal  made  a  serious  mistake,  for  he  concluded 
with  these  words :  "  All  his  writings  bore  a  character  that  was 
distinctly  national,  and  none  more  so  than  his  great  work,  '  The 
Story  of  the  Irish  before  the  Conquest.1 "  But  this  delightful 
book  is  by  "  M.  C.  Ferguson,"  her  husband  contributing  only  the 

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530  Sir  Samuel  Ferguson. 

Appendix ;  though,  no  doubt,  he  helped  her  in  the  body  of  the 
work.  Lady  Ferguson,  in  return,  had  probably  an  important  share 
in  the  volume  of  "  Shakespearian  Breviates,"  which  the  title  page 
explains  to  be  "an  adjustment  of  twenty-four  of  the  longer  plays 
of  Shakespeare  to  convenient  reading  limits."  That  ought  to  be  a 
good  half -crown's  worth,  and  it  will  recall  to  some  the  memory  of 
many  delightful  hours  spent  in  Sir  Samuel's  hospitable  home  at 
20  North  Great  George's-street,  Dublin. 

The  Freeman98  Journal  lately  published  a  curious  relic  of  young 
Ferguson's  connection  with  the  North  East-Circuit — for  even 
octogenarians  were  young  once,  and  he  must  have  been  young 
when  he  drew  his  not  unfriendly  picture  of  one  of  those  loyal 
Orangemen  to  whom  the  new  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer  appealed 
to  "  charge  with  all  their  chivalry ; "  a  rather  successful  appeal, 
though,  no  doubt,  Lord  Randolph  did  not  mean  the  chivalry  to  be 
exercised  against  the  Catholic  mill-girls  of  Belfast.  Of  this  "  Loyal 
Orangeman  of  Portadown  "  Mr.  William  Gernon  writes  : — 

"  It  brought  back  to  me,  as  I  am  sure  it  did  to  all  the  more 
senior  members  of  the  North-East  Circuit  still  living,  the  most 
pleasing  memories  of  its  genial  and  gifted  author,  as  well  as  of  the 
Circuit  itself,  and  its  associations  and  surroundings,  in  the  good  old 
days  when  Sam  was  one  of  its  most  brilliant  lights  and  sparkling 
wits.  Those  who  remember  the  North- East  Circuit  some  thirty  or 
forty  years  ago  can  well  recall  to  memory  the  crowd  of  legal  lumi- 
naries and  distinguished  orators  who,  after  the  day's  fatigue  from 
professional  labour,  used  to  assemble  round  the  Bar  mess  table  in 
the  evening  for  dinner,  contributing  their  ready  wit  and  repartee 
to  make  the  most  delightful  "  Noctes  Ambrosianse ; "  old  Robert 
Holmes  presiding  as  Father ;  Sir  Thomas  Staples,  who  afterwards 
became  Father  ;  Whiteside,  after  fairly  laughing  some  dishonest 
or  trumpery  case  out  of  court ;  Joseph  Napier,  Toombe,  Gilmore, 
Joy,  and,  though  last  not  least,  O'Hagan.  Then,  as  now,  the  call 
of  the  Father  for  a  song,  a  sentiment,  or  a  recitation  was  deemed 
a  command,  disobedience  or  contumacy  to  which  was  visited  with 
the  penalty  of  a  fine,  to  be  paid  in  champagne  or  claret,  and  never 
was  the  command  of  the  Father  more  loudly  applauded  or  more 
loyally  obeyed  than  when  Sam  Ferguson  was  called  on  to  recite, 
for  the  benefit  of  the  mess,  his  s  Loyal  Orangeman  of  Portadown/ 
Sam  was  no  singer,  but  he  made  ample  compensation  and  some- 
thing more  by  recitation  of  some  of  his  own  compositions,  and  no 
one  who  ever  heard  him  recite  the  'Loyal  Orangeman'  can 
forget  its  effect,  especially  when  he  came  to  strike  the  table  with 

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Sir  Samuel  Ferguson.  531 

his  tumbler,  on  referring  with  indignation  to  his  visit  to  '  That 
rebelly  Papish  Radington/  or  to  '  That  other  chap  more  rebelly 
still,  the  fellow  they  call  Somerville ; '  but  Sam  Ferguson's  was 
only  simulated  indignation,  and  it  was  only  the  table  that  he 
struck,  unlike  the  loyal  heroes  of  the  north  nowadays,  who  with 
noble  bravery  strike  down  and  shoot  their  fellow-men — or,  better 
still,  with  the  true  instincts  of  manly  gallantry,  attack  and  injure 
timid  girls  and  defenceless  children/' 

An  expert  in  the  northern  accent  objects  to  the  following,  that 
will  is  pronounced  rather  well  than  wull,  and  that  the  first  letter  of 
the  alphabet  can  represent  the  first  person  singular  only  before  a 
consonant.  But  all  such  phonetic  spelling  is  merely  an  approxi- 
mation to  the  real  sounds. 

A  am  a  loyal  Orangeman, 

From  Portadown  upon  the  Bann. 

Ma  loyalty,  A  wull  maintain, 

Was  iver  an  always  without  stain ; 

Tho'  rebelly  Papishes  may  call 

Ma  loyalty  conditional, 

A  niver  did  insist  upon 

Nor  ask  a  condition  beyont  the  one — 

The  crown  of  the  causeway  in  road  or  in  street, 

And  the  Papishes  put  under  me  feet. 

It  was  in  the  year  1848 

A  rebellion  dire  menaced  the  State, 

So  A  mounted  up  upon  ma  hackney, 

An*  off  A  set  to  General  Blacken ey. 

Says  A  "  Sir  Edward,  here  we  are. 

Sax  hundred  mortial  men  of  war, 

Keady  an*  able,  niver  fear, 

To  march  from  the  Causeway  till  Oape  Clear 

And  drive  the  rebels  would  dar  to  raise 

The  Popish  flag  intil  the  says." 

Says  he  "  You're  offer's  very  fair, 

An'  very  timely,  too,  A  declare, 

For  here  we're  all  as  one  as  beseiged, 

So  for  your  service  we're  much  obleeged. 

But  we  hope  ye  won't  forget  to  mix 

In  the  ranks  of  the  loyal  Catholics." 

There  was  sittin'  by  not  lettin'  on, 

That  rebelly  Papish  Kadington, 

An'  that  other  chap  more  rebelly  still, 

The  fella  they  call  bomerville. 

So  with  the  corner  in  me  eye 

A  gev  them  a  look  as  A  made  reply. 

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632  Sir  Samuel  Ferguson. 

Says  A,  "  Make  no  exciue,  A  pray, 

For  askin'  us  to  serve  that  way. 

We  won't  consider  the  trouble  much, 

For  we  don't  allow  there's  any  such." 

Well,  what  do  you  think,  sir,  after  that 

A  thought  it  was  time  to  put  on  ma  hat, 

You'd  have  given  a  pound  to  see  the  two, 

An'  the  look  they  gave  as  A  withdrew. 

But  Hell  till  me  sowl  if  they  didn't  send 

An'  ask  me  back  by  a  private  friend, 

An'  A  saw  the  Colonel*  an'  brave  John  Pittt 

An'  A  got  a  gun  and  A  have  it  yit. 

An1  if  ever  the  rebelly  Papishes  dar 

Again  to  challenge  the  North  to  war, 

That  Radington  the  Papish  dog 

Is  the  very  first  man  A'll  shoot,  by  Gog. 

As  a  contrast  to  this  clever  squib,  let  us  cite  a  religious  poem 
which  Sir  8.  Ferguson  contributed  to  the  Jjyra  Hibernica  Sacra, 
and  which  our  readers  can  hardly  have  met  with.  It  is  entitled 
"  Three  Thoughts." 

"  Come  in,  Sweet  Thought,  come  in ; 

Why  linger  at  the  door  P 
Is  it  because  a  shape  of  sin 

Defiled  the  place  before  P 
'Twas  but  a  moment  there ; 

I  chased  it  soon  away : 
Behold,  my  breast  is  clear  and  bare — 

Come  in.  Sweet  Thought,  and  stay." 
The  Sweet  Thought  said  me  "  No ; 

I  love  not  such  a  room, 
Where  uncouth  inmates  come  and  go, 

And  back,  unbidden,  come ; 
I  rather  make  my  cell 

From  ill  resort  secure, 
Where  love  and  lovely  fancies  dwell 

In  bosoms  virgin-pure." 

.«  Oh,  Pure  Thought,"  then  I  said, 
"  Come  thou,  and  bring  with  thee 
This  dainty  Sweetness,  fancy-bred. 

That  flouts  my  house  and  me. 
No  peevish  pride  hast  thou, 

Nor  turnest  glance  of  scorn 

On  aught  the  laws  of  life  allow 

In  man  of  woman  born." 

*  Colonel  Phayre,  who  took  some  part  in  the  arrangement*  said  to  have  been  made 
at  the  Castle  for  supplying  the  loyal  Orangemen  with  arms  in  1848. 

t  Major  John  Pitt  Kennedy,  who  had  some  official  post  in  the  Castle. 

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Sir  Samuel  Ferguson.  583 

Said  he,  M  No  place  for  us 

Ib  here :  and,  be  it  known, 
You  dwell  where  ways  are  perilous 

For  them  that  walk  alone. 
There  needs  the  surer  road, 

The  fresher-sprinkled  floor, 
Else  are  we  not  for  your  abode  " — 

And  turned  him  from  my  door. 

Then  in  my  utmost  need, 
"  Oh,  Holy  Thought,"  I  cried, 
"  Gome  thou,  that  cleansest  will  and  deed, 

And  in  my  breast  abide." 
"  Yea,  sinner,  that  will  I, 

And  presently  begin  ; " 
And  ere  the  heart  had  heav'd  its  sigh, 

The  Guest  Divine  came  in. 
As  in  the  pest-house  ward 

The  prompt  Physician  stands, 
As  in  the  leagured  castle  yard 

The  warden  with  his  bands, 
He  stood,  and  said,  "  My  task 

Is  here,  and  here  my  home ; 
And  here  am  I,  who  only  ask 

That  I  be  asked  to  come." 

See  how  in  formless  flight 

The  ranks  of  darkness  run, 
Exhale  and  perish  in  the  light 

Stream'd  from  the  risen  sun ; 
How,  but  a  drop  infuse 

Within  the  turbid  bowl, 
Of  some  elixir's  virtuous  juice, 

It  straight  makes  clear  the  whole ; 
So  from  before  His  face 

The  fainting  phantoms  went, 
And,  in  a  clear  and  sunny  place, 

My  soul  sat  down  content ; 
For — mark  and  understand 

My  ailment  and  my  cure — 
Love  came  and  brought  me,  in  his  hand, 

The  Sweet  Thought  and  the  Pure. 

In  1867  Mr.  Samuel  Ferguson,  Q.C. — for  lie  had  been  called 
to  the  Junior  Bar  in  1859 — was  appointed  Deputy  Keeper  of  the 
Public  Records  of  Ireland.  In  March,  1878,  "the  honour  of 
knighthood  "  was  conferred  upon  him,  in  acknowledgment  of  his 
literary  and  antiquarian  merits ;  but,  perhaps,  attention  was  called 
to  these  by  a  remarkable  poem,  "  The  Widow's  Cloak/'  which  he 

,  Digitized  by  VjvJwVJL^, 


534  Sir  Samuel  Ferguson. 

had  shortly  before  contributed  to  Blackwood's  Magazine.  The 
widow  in  question  was  Queen  Victoria,  and  the  cloak  was  the 
mantle  of  her  imperial  authority ;  but  even  in  this  fervent  expres- 
sion of  loyalty,  the  poet  showed  his  Irish  nature  by  giving  to  his 
poem  this  simple  name,  and  a  very  un-English  form  and  metre. 

As  his  last  poem  appeared  in  Blackwood,  so  his  first  had  done. 
The  famous  "Forging  of  the  Anchor'9  was  ushered  into  the 
literary  world  with  extraordinary  emphasis  by  the  then  renowned 
Christopher  North.*  That  Magazine,  which  has  maintained  its 
reputation  to  our  own  day  better  than  any  of  its  rivals,  and  indeed 
survives  almost  as  a  solitary  relic  from  the  bygone  generations  of 
periodical  literature,  contained  nearly  all  of  Ferguson's  miscel- 
laneous writings,  except  those  contributed  to  the  Dublin  University 
Magazine.  This  last  in  its  brightest  days  was  enriched  with 
"  The  Hibernian  Nights'  Entertainment/9  of  which  we  are  glad 
to  hear  that  we  may  look  forward  to  a  separate  issue.  "  The  Lays 
of  the  Western  Gael,"  a  collection  of  Sir  Samuel  Ferguson's  poems, 
was  published  in  1865,  and  "  Congal ;  a  Poem  in  Five  Books," 
in  1872. 

Happily  we  are  relieved  from  an  obligation  which  could  not 
now  be  adequately  fulfilled ;  for  this  Magazine  has  already 'given 
the  fullest  and  most  sympathetic  account  of  Sir  Samuel  Ferguson's 
poetical  works  that  has  appeared  anywhere.  In  our  twelfth  volume 
(1884)  "  0 "  devotes  eighteen  pages  to  a  minute  and  loving 
study  of  the  epic  of  "  Congal,"  and  later,  in  the  same  volume, 
this  well  qualified  critic  discusses  in  a  still  longer  article  the  mis- 
cellaneous poems  of  his  friend.  When  only  the  first  part  of  this 
eloquent  itude  had  been  published.  Sir  Samuel  Ferguson  wrote 
the  following  letter  to  the  Editor  cf  this  Magazine,  who  ventures 
to  print  it,  as  another  evidence  of  the  courtesy  and  kindliness  of  the 
writer: — 

GATEHOU8B  HOTEL,   TENBY,  SOUTH  WALEP, 

21st  July,  1884. 
My  dbab  Sib — Let  me  thank  you  for  jour  obliging  letter,  enclosing  Mr. 
de  Vere'e  note,  which  reached  me  while  on  vacation  in  the  country.  I  have  also 
heard  from  Judge  O'Hagan,  who  tells  me  you  contemplate  the  insertion  of  a 
second  notice  of  my  poems.  It  is  very  grateful  to  me  to  find  appreciation 
among  my  own  countrymen.  It  has  hitherto  been  almost  totally  denied  me  in 
the  great  centres  of  criticism  in  England.  Possibly  de  Vere  divines  the  true 
cause.    My  business  is,  regardless  of  such  discouragements)  to  do  what  I  can  in 

*  This  passage  from  the  Ifoctes  Ambrosiance  is  quoted  in  full  in  the  Ibish 
Monthly,  Vol.  xii,  p.  379. 

!  Digitized  by  VjOOQ  LC 

IV     k 


Sir  Samuel  Ferguson.  535 

the  formation  of  a  characteristic  school  of  letters  for  my  own  country.  For  the 
sympathy  and  encouragement  you  give  me,  accept  my  warmest  thanks,  and 
believe  me 

Yours  very  faithfully, 

Samubl  Fjerquson. 

As  Mr.  Aubrey  de  Vere  is,  referred  to  in  the  foregoing  letter, 
we  trust  that  he  will  allow  us  to  include  in  this  tribute  to  the 
memory  of  one  whom  he  loved  and  esteemed  a  very  emphatic 
testimony  from  another  letter  of  his  which  has  come  under  our 
eyes  in  drawing  up  the  present  informal  paper.  "Ferguson's 
*  Conary '  I  reckon  our  best  Irish  poem/'  Our  indiscretion  may 
be  completed  by  the  insertion  of  an  earlier  letter,  received  from 
the  subject  of  these  pages,  as  a  further  illustration  of  his  gentle 
character : — 

20  North  Great  George's-street,  Dublin. 
1st  Sept.,  1879. 

My  dear  Sib — On  my  return  from  the  country  I  find  your  kind  letter  of 
the  17th  July,  with  the  accompanying  numbers  of  The  Irish  Monthly,  and 
The  Catholic  World.  The  notice  in  the  latter  gratified  me  very  much.  As  I 
dare  say  you  have  the  series,  I  return  this  number  with  my  warm  thanks  for 
your  goodness  in  letting  me  see  it.  1  venture  to  keep  the  numbers  of  The 
Ibish  Monthly.  It  is  a  highly  creditable  publication,  and  you  have  reason  to 
be  proud  of  it.  I  do  not  myself  sympathise  in  its  tone  at  all ;  but  I  recognise 
the  ability  of  the  articles  and  the  pervading  .evidence  of  an  amiable  presiding 
mind. 

I  am  not  qualified  to  be  a  contributor.  In  a  month  or  two  I  may  have  the 
pleasure  of  presenting  a  volume  of  poems,  now  in  the  Press,  in  which  I  continue 
to  make  the  most  I  can  of  old  Irish  material,  treating  it  with  even  greater 
freedom  than  I  have  used  in  Conaal.  A  review  of  Congal  from  the  pen  you 
point  to  would  be  a  very  valuable  guide  to  literary  opinion,  as  coming  from  one 
who  combines  poetic  capacity  with  a  well-trained  judgment. 

Very  faithfully  yours, 

S.  Ferguson. 

A  certain  provincial  Editor,  to  whose  lot  it  fell  to  record  at  due 
length  in  one  week  the  demise  of  two  local  notabilities,  began  a 
third  paragraph  of  the  sort  by  remarking :  u  Twice  already  have 
we  trod  the  path  of  obituarial  phraseology/9  Out  of  the  mass  of 
€t  obituarial  phraseology  "  which  the  late  President  of  the  Boyal 
Irish  Academy  has  evoked,  the  worthiest  tribute  is  paid  to  his 
memory  by  Miss  Margaret  Stokes,  in  The  Academy  of  August  21.* 

•  Her  London  printers  are  probably  responsible  for  a  blundering  sentence  about 
"Blackwood  of  the  Edinburgh  Magazine."  She  is  herself  mistaken  about  "Willie 
Gilliland,"  which  is  a  long  original  ballad,  written  at  a  time  when  the  young  poet 
would  hardly  hare  accepted  the  spiritual  ministrations  of  Lord  Plunket. 


i  by  Google 


536  My  Wife's  Birthday. 

Both  she  and  Professor  Mahaffy,  in  The  Athenaum,  lay  undue 
stress  on  the  fact  that  Sir  Samuel's  patriotism,  especially  towards 
the  end  of  his  life,  assumed  more  and  more  of  an  antiquarian  and 
academic  character.  They  imply  that  he  patronised  Thomas  Davie, 
chiefly  as  a  protest  against  O'ConnelL  No  doubt  this  was  and  is  the 
special  recommendation  of  Young  Irelandism  with  certain  unprac- 
tical politicians.  This  aloofness  from  the  religion  and  politics  of 
living  Ireland  helps  to  explain  how  far  such  generous  and  gifted 
men  are  from  getting  at  the  real  heart  of  the  people.  While 
making  every  allowance  for  his  traditions  and  surroundings,  there 
will  be  nothing  unkind  in  confessing  our  belief  that  the  author  of 
"  Father  Tom  and  the  Pope "  would  have  been  a  more  genuine 
poet  and  a  truer  Irishman  if  he  could  have  joined  the  Sail,  Mary  t 
to  the  Our  Father,  winding  up  with  a  fervent  God  Save  Ireland. 


MY  WIFE'S  BIRTHDAY, 

AND  so  it  is  thy  birthday,  love,  to-day, 
And  I  am  left  to  keep  it  all  alone — 
To  clasp  with  lodging  arms  the  empty  air, 
To  break  the  stillness  with  my  lonely  prayer  : 
Does  my  voice  reach  thee,  love,  as  thus  I  pray  P 
Ah !  how  unlike  our  prayers  in  days  by-gone  ! 

So  it  has  come  and  gone,  another  year. 

Dost  know  it,  sweet  ?    There  is  no  age  for  thee, 
Though  I,  thine  other  self,  grow  old  so  fast, 
Another  step  removed,  our  happy  past — 
Ah  me !  so  far  away  and  yet  so  near ! 

In  thine  eternal  youth,  remember  me* 

For  I  grow  old  alone — it  seems  so  strange, 
Love,  when,  in  all  I  did,  thou  hadst  a  share. 

Yet  the  years  pass,  and  each  one  leaves  its  trace 

Only  on  me.    My  bride,  thine  angel  face 

Smiles  at  me  youthful  still,  and  knows  no  change, 
And  golden  as  thy  halo  is  thy  hair. 

Clasp  my  hand  close,  sweetheart,  oh  clasp  it  yet  t 

Cling  to  me  with  thy  faithful  spirit-hand. 
Through  all  the  darkness  of  the  yeara  to  come 
Do  thou  lead  onwards  still,  and  guide  me  home, 
Thou  my  home-treasure  once  (oh  ne'er  forget  1) 

Be  my  good  angel  in  the  Better  Land  ! 

M.B. 

Digitized  by  G00gle 


I    «37    ) 


LEIBNITZ 

Part  II. 

By  the  late  Very  Rev.  C.  W.  Russell,  D.D. 

Ik  January,  1673,  Leibnitz  visited  London  for  the  first  time.  A 
secret  diplomatic  mission  had  been  sent  from  Germany  to  Louis 
XIV.  ;  and,  on  its  proceeding  from  Paris  to  the  English  Court, 
Leibnitz  was  attached  to  it  in  the  capacity  of  Secretary.  He  was 
received  with  the  utmost  distinction  in  London.  His  name  fur- 
nished a  ready  passport  to  all  the  best  literary  and  scientific  circles. 
Boyle,  Hook,  Sydenham,  Barrow,  Oldenburg,  Ray,  received  him 
almost  as  an  old  friend,  although  his  relations  with  more  than  one 
of  them  were  afterwards  painfully  interrupted.  During  his  stay  in 
London,  he  had  many  communications  on  mathematical  subjects 
with  Oldenburg,  and  other  members  of  the  Royal  Society ;  and 
the  model  of  his  calculating  machine  was  exhibited  by  Moreland 
at  one  of  their  meetings.  To  his  great  disappointment,  however, 
his  sojourn  in  London  was  suddenly  terminated  by  the  death  of 
the  Elector,  John  Philip,  and  the  recall  of  the  mission.  It  re- 
turned to  Paris  in  the  March  of  the  same  year ;  and  thence,  soon 
after,  to  the  Electoral  Court  at  Maintz.  Leibnitz,  however  (who 
retained  his  position  under  the  new  Elector),  was  permitted  to 
remain  in  Paris. 

Soon  after  his  return  to  that  city,  he  received  an  intimation 
that  he  had  been  admitted  (April  16, 1673)  an  honorary  member 
of  the  Royal  Society  of  London.  A  new  testimony  to  his  reputa- 
tion quickly  followed  in  the  form  of  an  invitation  to  accept  a  per- 
manent office  at  Copenhagen,  and  a  similar  one  to  the  Court  of 
Hanover.  He  declined  these  offers,  nevertheless,  and  continued 
to  reside  at  Paris,  chiefly  for  the  purpose  of  study.  The  celebrated 
Delphin  Edition  of  the  Latin  Classics  was  at  this  time  in  full  pro- 
gress. Leibnitz  was  invited  by  Huet,  the  principal  editor,  to  lend 
his  assistance ;  and,  after  some  hesitation,  undertook,  at  Huet's 
urgent  representation,  the  editing  of  the  African  poet,  Martianus 
Capella.    Before  he  had  made  any  considerable  progress  in  the 

Digitized  by  G00gle 


538  Leibnitz. 

task,  however,  lie  received  a  third  and  still  more  pressing  invita- 
tion to  the  Court  of  Hanover  from  the  Duke,  John  Frederic,  to 
which  he  at  last  yielded.  It  was  not  without  great  reluctance  that 
he  brought  himself  to  quit  Paris,  the  scientific  society  of  which 
city  was  so  congenial  to  all  his  tastes  that  he  had  actually  formed 
the  design  of  investing  the  little  savings  of  his  early  years  in  the 
purchase  of  a  patent  place,  and  fixing  his  residence  there  for  ever. 
The  great  attraction  which  it  possessed  for  him  lay  in  the  brilliant 
literary  and  scientific  circle  which  the  patronage  of  Louis  XIV. 
had  drawn  to  his  capital,  and  into  which  Leibnitz  had  been  cordi- 
ally admitted.  He  had  long  enjoyed  the  acquaintance  of  Arnaud 
and  Malebranche.  Huet,  Huygens,  La  Hire,  Varignan,  De  1*  Hopi- 
tal,  and  many  other  mathematicians  were  among  his  most  familiar 
friends,  and  the  confidants  and  participators  of  his  studies.  With 
Huygens,  especially,  he  lived  in  the  closest  intimacy ;  and  he  is 
believed  to  have  had  a  share  in  many  of  the  philosophical  investi- 
gations of  this  great  experimentalist.  It  was  at  the  desire  of 
these  friends  that  he  undertook  to  edit  the  mathematical  remains 
of  the  celebrated  Pascal ;  but  his  removal  to  Hanover  obliged 
him  to  abandon  this  project,  as  well  as  that  of  editing  Martianus 
Capella. 

The  date  of  his  leaving  Paris  for  Hanover,  however,  is  chiefly 
important  in  connection  with  the  history  of  the  discovery  of  the 
Method  of  the  Differential  Calculus ; — a  discovery  which  would  in 
itself  have  sufficed  to  form  the  reputation  of  a  life,  although  unhap- 
pily its  glory  is  somewhat  dimmed  by  the  angry  controversy  with 
Sir  Isaac  Newton,  as  to  priority  of  invention,  to  which  it  led.  In 
this  unhappy  controversy,  the  English  and  foreign  mathemati- 
cians have,  generally  speaking,  ranged  themselves  on  opposite 
sides,  the  English  giving  the  merit  of  the  discovery  to  their  own 
countryman,  while  the  foreigners  are  equally  warm  in  support  of 
the  claims  of  Leibnitz.  A  detailed  history  of  this  curious  dispute 
would  far  exceed  the  limits  at  our  disposal ;  but  we  must,  at  least, 
briefly  state  the  leading  facts  connected  with  it. 

We  shall  best  explain  the  origin  of  the  dispute  (although,  in 
so  doing,  we  anticipate  the  order  of  events),  by  relating  the  circum- 
stances in  which  the  two  rival  discoveries  were  first  respectively 
made  known.  There  is  no  question,  we  may  premise,  of  the  fact  that 
Leibnitz  has  the  priority  in  the  order  of  publication.  As  early  as 
1684,  he  published,  in  the  well-known  journal  of  Leipsig,  entitled 
Acta  Erudilorum  (in  the  October  of  that  year),  a  detailed  explana- 
tion of  the  so-called  Differential  Calculus,  since  famous  under  his 

Digitized  by  VjvJOVt  I  v. 


Leibnitz.  589 

name.  Now,  it  was  not  until  two  years  later  that  Newton,  in  the 
first  edition  of  his  Prineipia  (1686),  made  his  Method  of  Fluxions 
public ;  and  it  should  be  added  that,  far  from  manifesting  at  this 
time  any  ill-feeling  towards  Leibnitz,  he  accompanied  it  with  a 
high  tribute  to  his  eminent  merit.  Nor  does  it  appear  that  any 
idea  of  rivalry  between  these  great  mathematicians  or  their  friends 
arose  until  the  question  of  priority  was  raised  (in  1699),  by  a 
Swiss  mathematician,  named  Fatio  de  Duiller,  resident  in  Eng- 
land, who,  influenced,  it  is  supposed,  by  a  vindictive  feeling  against 
Leibnitz,  declared  his  Calculus  to  be  identical  with  the  Fluxions 
of  Newton.  It  began  at  the  same  time  to  be  alleged  that,  though 
Leibnitz  was  the  first  to  publish  the  Method,  he  had  borrowed  it 
from  the  MSS.  of  Newton,  which  he  had  privately  seen.  Leibnitz 
addressed  a  very  earnest  remonstrance  to  the  Royal  Society,  in 
reply  to  these  allegations ;  but  no  further  notice  was  taken  of  the 
matter  until  (in  1704)  an  article  appeared  in  the  Leipsig  journal 
{which,  unhappily,  is  now  proved  to  have  been  from  Leibnitz's 
own  pen),  reflecting  injuriously  upon  Newton,  and  accusing  him 
of  having  borrowed  his  method  in  substance  from  Leibnitz,  merely 
substituting  fluxions  for  differences.  Indignant  at  this  ungene- 
rous and,  certainly,  most  unfounded  imputation,  the  leading 
English  mathematicians  resolved  to  defend  the  honour  of  their 
countryman ;  and  a  paper  by  Keill  (then  a  very  young  man,  but 
since  so  distinguished  as  an  astronomer),  appeared  in  the  "  Philoso- 
phical Transactions  for  1708,"  retorting  upon  Leibnitz  the  imputa- 
tion levelled  against  Newton  by  the  Leipsig  journalist.  Leibnitz 
lost  no  time  in  addressing  to  Hans  Sloane,  the  Secretary  of  the 
Royal  Society,  a  formal  demand  that  Keill  should  be  required  to 
retract  this  injurious  allegation ;  but  the  demand  only  led  to  a 
stronger  reiteration  of  the  assertion  on  Keill' s  part,  in  a  letter 
addressed  to  Sloane ;  and,  eventually,  the  Royal  Society  itself,  after 
an  inquiry  undertaken  at  the  challenge  of  Leibnitz,  published  a 
report  on  the  whole  controversy  to  the  following  effect :  "  That 
Mr.  Leibnitz  was  in  London  in  1673,  and  went  thence  to  Paris, 
where  he  kept  a  correspondence  with  Mr.  Collins,  by  means  of 
Mr.  Oldenburg,  till  about  September,  1676,  and  then  returned  by 
London  and  Amsterdam  to  Hanover ;  that  Mr.  Collins  was  very 
free  in  communicating  to  able  mathematicians  what  he  received 
from  Mr.  Newton ;  that  it  did  not  appear  that  Mr.  Leibnitz  knew 
anything  of  the  Differential  Calculus,  before  his  letter  of  June  21, 
1677,  which  was  a  year  after  a  copy  of  Newton's  letter  of  Decem- 
ber 10,  1672,  had  been  sent  to  Paris  to  be  communicated  to  him ; 


Jigitizea  uy  \<jkjkj 


5lV 


540  Leibnitz. 

that,  about  four  years  after,  Mr.  Collins  began  to  communicate 
that  letter  to  his  correspondents,  in  which  letter  the  method  of 
Fluxions  was  sufficiently  described  to  any  intelligent  person ;  that 
Newton  was  in  possession  of  that  Calculus  before  the  year  1669  ; 
that  those  who  reputed  Leibnitz  the  first  inventor,  knew  little  or 
nothing  of  his  correspondence  with  Mr.  Oldenburg  and  Mr. 
Collins,  nor  of  Newton's  having  that  method  above  fifteen  years 
before  Leibnitz  began  to  publish  it  in  the  Leipsig  Acts;  and  that* 
for  this  reason,  they  reckoned  Newton  the  first  inventor,  and 
were  of  opinion  that  Mr.  Keill,  in  asserting  the  same,  had  been  in 
nowise  injurious  to  Mr.  Leibnitz/' 

It  will  be  seen  that  this  Report  proceeds  on  the  supposition 
that  the  two  methods,  that  of  fluxions  and  that  of  differences,  are 
identical.  On  this  supposition  it  pronounces,  most  truly,  that  in 
point  oi  time  the  priority  of  discovery,  though  not  of  publication, 
belongs  to  Newton.  On  the  still  more  important  question — whe- 
ther Leibnitz  actually  borrowed  his  method  from  Newton's  papers, 
communicated  to  him  by  Collins,  the  Report,  without  any  formal 
and  distinct  averment  to  that  effect,  very  clearly  implies  and  sug- 
gests the  affirmative  conclusion.  It  would  require  much  more 
space  than  we  can  command  to  lay  before  the  reader  all  the  evi- 
dence necessary  for  a  satisfactory  judgment  on  this  vital  question ; 
but  it  will  be  enough  for  us  to  state  that,  in  the  opinion  of  the 
highest  mathematical  authorities  of  modern  times,  this  Report  of 
the  Royal  Society  is  unjust  to  Leibnitz  in  two  different  ways. 
First,  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  two  methods — the  method  of 
Fluxions  and  that  of  Differences — are  essentially  distinct  and  inde- 
pendent of  each  other.  Not  to  urge,  on  this  point,  the  judgments 
of  such  men  as  Euler,  Lagrange,  Laplace,  Poisson,  Montucla,  Ac., 
we  have  the  authority  of  one  of  the  highest  names  in  modern 
mathematical  science,  M.  Biot,  that  (far  from  the  one  being  clearly 
involved  in  the  other  or  deducible  therefrom)  even  after  the  full 
and  complete  publication  and  explanation  of  the  Method  of 
Fluxions  in  all  its  details,  the  discovery  of  the  Differential  Cal- 
culus would  still  have  been  a  signal  triumph  of  mathematical  in- 
genuity. In  the  second  place,  even  supposing  the  two  methods 
to  involve  the  same  principles  and  to  lead  directly  to  each  other,, 
it  must  yet  be  acknowledged  that  the  Report  of  the  Royal  Society 
is  very  far  from  stating  fully  the  facts  of  the  case,  as  they  bear 
upon  the  great  question  whether  or  not  Leibnitz  had  had  an  oppor- 
tunity of  borrowing  his  method  from  the  unpublished  papers  of 
Newton.    It  is  perfectly  true  that,  as  the  Report  alleges,  Newton 

Digitized  by  VjVJ wVJ  I  v. 


Leibnitz.  541 

was  in  possession  of  his  method  as  early  as  1666  or,  perhaps, 
1665.  It  is  true  also  that  Leibnitz  was  in  London  in  1673,  and 
was  in  communication  with  several  of  the  friends  of  Newton  during 
his  visit.  But  there  is  no  evidence  whatever  that  he  then  received 
from  any  of  them  the  most  remote  intimation  of  Newton's  being 
in  possession  of  any  such  method,  much  less  any  explanation  of  its 
details.  On  the  contrary,  it  is  well  observed  by  Montucla  that  the 
only  paper  of  Newton's  containing  even  a  hint  at  the  particulars 
of  his  method — his  Analysis  per  Aequationes  numero  terminorum  infi- 
nites— is  not  even  pretended  to  have  been,  at  any  time,  shown  to 
Leibnitz.  It  is  true,  as  stated  in  the  Report,  that  a  letter  of 
Newton's,  containing  the  announcement  of  his  discovery,  was 
communicated  to  Leibnitz  by  Oldenburg.  But  the  Report  does 
not  state  the  important  explanatory  fact  that,  in  this  letter,  the 
method  was  not  explained  or  announced  openly,  but,  according 
to  a  practice  not  unusual  among  mathematicians  at  that  time,  was 
concealed  under  an  anagram;  and  that,  in  truth,  the  announcement 
was  only  intended,  without  betraying  Newton  s  secret,  to  serve  as  a 
register  of  the  date  of  his  discovery. 

It  is  equally  certain,  too,  that,  three  years  before  the  date 
assigned  in  the  Report,  Leibnitz  had  written  to  Oldenburg  to 
announce  his  own  discovery ;  and  it  is  plain  from  Oldenburg's 
answer,  in  which  (evidently,  for  the  first  time),  he  informs  Leibnitz 
that  u  a  certain  Mr.  Newton  of  Cambridge,"  is  in  possession  of  a 
similar  method,  that  up  to  this  date  (December  8, 1674),  Newton's 
papers  had  not  been  communicated  to  him. 

It  is  no  less  certain,  on  the  other  hand,  that  before  his  second 
visit  to  London,  and  therefore  before  he  had  had  any  other  oppor- 
tunity forthe  plagiarism  from  Newton,  Leibnitz  was  in  possession 
of  his  own  method.  A  full  year  before  the  date  assigned  in  the 
Report,  while  he  was  still  in  Paris,  he  wrote  to  Oldenburg  (August 
27, 1676),  a  sufficiently  full  explanation,  not  only  of  the  principles, 
but  even  of  the  details  of  this  method  of  differences,  which  Biot 
declares  to  be  in  every  respect  identical  with  that  contained  in  the 
letter  from  Hanover  in  1677,  referred  to  in  the  Report,  as  Leib- 
nitz's first  announcement  of  his  method.  Now,  the  former  letter 
(August,  1676),  was  written  several  months  before  Leibnitz's 
second  visit  to  London — that  visit  in  which  it  is  insinuated  by  the 
Report,  and  was  openly  asserted  by  Newton's  partisans,  that  the 
information,  as  to  Newton's  method,  was  surreptitiously  obtained 
from  Collins. 

On  the  whole,  indeed,  nothing  now  seems  more  plain  than  that 
Vol.  xxt.  No*  160.  40 


542  Leibnitz. 

the  two  discoveries  were  made  quite  independently  of  each  other, 
and  that  each  of  the  discoverers  is  entitled  to  the  fall  merit  of 
originality  in  his  discovery.  It  is  certain,  too,  that  Leibnitz's 
method  is  so  distinct  from  that  of  Newton  that,  even  though  it 
were  posterior  in  discovery,  its  merit  would  be  but  little  diminished 
by  the  fact.  If,  in  the  heat  of  the  contest,  which  was  embittered 
by  personal  jealousies  as  well  as  by  national  antipathies,  these 
facts  were  overlooked,  the  acrimony  and  injustice  which  the 
quarrel  exhibited  can  only  be  taken  as  another  example  of  the 
melancholy  influence  which  prejudice  and  party  feeling  may  exer- 
cise over  the  most  enlightened,  the  most  liberal,  and  the  most 
cultivated  minds. 

The  narrative  of  this  contest  has  carried  us  beyond  the  regular 
order  of  events.  Late  in  the  autumn  of  1676,  Leibnitz  left 
Paris  to  take  possession  of  his  new  post  at  Hanover.  On  his  way 
he  passed  through  London ;  and  it  was  then  that,  for  the  first 
time,  he  saw  that  Mr.  Collins  from  whom  he  is  alleged  to  have 
received  his  information  as  to  Newton's  method.  His  stay  there 
was  very  brief ;  and  he  proceeded  to  Holland,  when,  at  the  Hague, 
he  met  the  celebrated  Pantheistic  Philosopher,  Spinoza,  with  whom, 
as  we  have  seen,  he  had  already  held  a  correspondence.  We 
should  add,  however,  that  although  both  philosophers  agreed  in 
adopting  the  general  principles  of  the  Cartesian  theory  as  the 
basis  of  their  respective  systems,  nothing  could  be  more  marked 
than  their  antagonism  in  all  the  details  of  their  practical  appli- 
ations. 

December,  1676,  saw  him  settled  in  Hanover,  where  he  was 
destined  to  pass  the  remainder  of  his  life.  He  was,  in  the  first 
instance,  appointed  Librarian  of  the  Ducal  Library,  btft  he  soon 
after  received  several  other  employments  from  the  liberality 
of  his  friend,  John  Frederick — the  Superintendence  of  the  Royal 
Mines,  the  Mastership  of  the  Mint,  and  finally  a  seat  in  the  Privy 
Council.  He  missed,  nevertheless,  the  brilliant  and  enlightened 
society  which  he  had  enjoyed  at  Paris ;  and  appeared  to  have  been 
disposed  to  embrace  an  offer  of  the  post  of  Librarian  at  Vienna, 
which  was  soon  after  made  to  him.  But  eventually  he  declined  to 
accept  it,  unless  he  were  at  the  same  time  named  to  a  seat  in  the 
Privy  Council. 

Nothing,  however,  could  be  more  liberal  or  more  considerate 
than  the  conduct  of  the  Duke  of  Hanover  in  his  regard.  He 
granted  him  almost  an  entire  exemption  from  the  duties  of  his 
various  offices,  in  order  that  he  might  be  free  to  devote  himself  to 

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Leibnitz.  543 

study.  "My  generous  prince,"  Leibnitz  writes  to  his  friend 
Coming,  "  will  not  hear  of  my  confining  myself  to  the  business  of 
my  office.  He  has  placed  it  quite  at  my  disposal,  to  absent  myself 
from  the  Sessions  whenever  I  am  detained  by  other  occupations/' 
Accordingly,  his  literary  activity,  after  his  removal  to  Hanover, 
appeared  more  marvellous  than  ever*  It  is  to  this  period  of  his 
life  we  have  to  refer  his  greatest  and  most  memorable  works, 
whether  in  Philosophy,  Theology,  Jurisprudence,  or  Literature — 
his  Theodicea,  his  Accessions  Sistortccs^hia  Commentaries  on  Diplo- 
matic Law,  and  his  Protogcea.  Moreover,  in  addition  to  his  regular 
literary  occupations,  he  continued  to  correspond  with  learned 
friends  in  every  country  of  Europe,  and  on  the  most  diversified 
subjects.  His  pen,  too,  was  anonymously  employed  by  the  Duke 
in  political  services  of  various  kinds.  His  mechanical  genius  was 
turned  to  account  in  devising  plans  for  the  better  management  of 
the  Ducal  mines  and  other  public  works,  and  improving  the 
machinery  employed  in  them.  And,  notwithstanding  all  this,  he 
continued  to  keep  pace  with  the  advances  in  literature  and  in 
science,  whether  physical  or  moral,  of  which  his  age  was  so  prolific. 
The  systems  of  Malebranche,  Descartes,  Locke,  Bayle,  Spinoza, 
&c,  will  be  found  to  be  discussed  with  consummate  skill  and 
ability,  as  they  successively  present  themselves,  in  those  of  his 
letters  which  are  still  preserved :  although  these  are  known  not  to 
constitute  a  tithe  of  his  voluminous  correspondence. 

Another  of  his  occasional  occupations  consisted  in  the  practice, 
then  popular  among  geometricians,  of  mutually  proposing  and 
resolving  mathematical  problems.  "  The  Geometers  of  that  day," 
says  Dr.  Ghihranar,  "  used  to  challenge  one  another  to  a  conflict  of 
wits  from  one  end  of  Europe  to  the  other,  through  the  medium  of 
the  public  journals,  which  formed  their  common  battlefield. 
Liebnitz  did  not  disdain  to  take  his  place  occasionally  in  the  lists 
along  with  his  friends  and  pupils,  although  in  truth  the  solution 
of  such  problems  to  him,  as  to  Newton,  was  but  a  matter  of  play. 
In  proposing  a  problem,  it  was  usual  to  fix  a  term  for  the  solution. 
Thus,  when  John  Bernouilli  proposed  his  celebrated  problem  : — 
*  To  find  the  curve  of  quickest  descent/  he  gave  a  year  for  its 
solution,  and  afterwards,  on  account  of  its  exceeding  difficulty, 
extended  the  term  by  six  additional  months.  Among  the  solutions 
of  it,  which  were  sent  forward,  was  an  anonymous  one  by  Newton ; 
and  it  is  told  of  him  that  he  found  the  problem  on  his  table,  as  he 
returned  in  the  evening  exhausted  after  his  duties  at  the  Royal 
Mint,  and  yet  completed  the  solution  before  supper.    But  Leibnitz 

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544  Leibnitz. 

was  equally  rapid,  and  would  seem  to  have  arrived  at  the  solution 
almost  by  intuition ;  for  lie  resolved  the  problem  while  driving  in 
his  carriage  from  Hanover  to  Wolf enbiittel,  and,  the  moment  he 
dismounted  from  the  carriage  at  the  hotel,  at  once  put  the  result 
on  paper/9  He  mentions  this  himself  in  a  letter  to  Burnet, 
seemingly  for  the  purpose  of  proving  that,  in  quickness  of  appre- 
hension, no  less  than  in  solidity  of  judgment,  he  was  not  inferior 
to  his  great  rival. 

One  of  the  most  pleasing  characteristics  of  Leibnitz  is  the  free 
and  liberal  spirit  (unfortunately  too  rare  among  men  of  letters 
and  of  science)  in  which  he  imparted  to  others  the  fruits  of  his 
own  study.  He  took  a  pleasure,  he  used  to  say,  in  seeing  his  own 
seeds  flourish,  even  though  in  another  man's  garden  ;  and  he  felt 
more  than  compensated  for  the  loss  of  individual  reputation  by  the 
advantage  to  the  general  cause  of  science  which  resulted  from  this 
more  liberal  policy.  To  this  liberality,  even  if  we  had  not  the 
most  grateful  acknowledgments  of  it  from  the  two  Bernouilli, 
from  the  Marquis  de  l'Hospital,  from  Huygens,  Otto  Mencke,  and 
others,  the  remains  of  his  correspondence  would  bear  the  fullest 
and  most  honourable  testimony. 

Leibnitz's  patron,  John  Frederic,  died  in  the  end  of  1679.  The 
accession  of  his  brother,  Ernest  Augustus,  led  to  a  complete  change 
of  the  Ministry  and  the  chief  officials  of  the  Court ;  but  Leibnitz 
continued  under  him  to  enjoy  the  same,  if  not  still  greater  favour. 
Early  after  the  accession  of  this  prince,  Leibnitz,  at  his  instance, 
became  engaged  in  one  of  the  most  remarkable  proceedings  of  his 
life — a  plan  for  the  reconciliation  and  reunion  of  the  Protestant 
and  Catholic  Churches.  It  is  no  part  of  our  present  purpose  to 
enter  into  the  history  of  these  proceedings  :  but  the  fact  is  in  itself 
too  important  to  be  overlooked.  And  it  is  a  most  remarkable 
evidence  of  the  versatility  of  Leibnitz's  genius  that  he  became  one 
of  the  most  active  and  efficient  negotiators  in  this  delicate  affair, 
and  that,  when  it  took  the  form  of  a  controversy  rather  than  of  a 
negotiation,  he  was  one  of  the  ablest  theological  disputants  of  his 
party — an  adversary  not  unworthy  to  break  a  lance  with  the  great 
Bossuet  himself,  the  most  redoubted  among  the  champions  of  the 
Catholic  Church. 

About  this  time,  also,  he  commenced  his  great  historical  work 
on  the  House  of  Brunswick.  In  search  of  materials  for  this  work 
he  undertook,  by  order  of  his  Government,  an  exploratory  tour  of 
all  the  great  libraries  and  collections  which  seemed  to  promise  any 
light  upon  its  subject.     Setting  out  in  the  autumn  of  1867,  he 

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Leibnitz.  545 

visited  Rheinfels,  Frankfort,  and  Sulzbach,  and  proceeded  to 
Yienna  in  the  following  spring.  The  reception  which  he  met  at 
Vienna  was  highly  flattering.  His  visit  to  that  capital  occurred 
at  a  memorable  moment — just  after  the  arrival  of  that  embassy 
from  the  Ottoman  Porte,  from  the  negotiations  of  which  we  date 
the  final  abandonment  of  the  old  aggressive  policy  on  the  part  of 
the  Moslem,  which,  for  centuries  before,  had  kept  Southern  Europe 
in  perpetual  alarm.  The  conqueror  of  Constantinople,  Mahomet 
II.,  had  bequeathed  the  thirst  of  fresh  conquests  as  an  inheritance 
to  his  successors.  He  had  himself  wrested  from  the  Christians  two 
hundred  towns  and  cities.  The  inscription  which  he  had  placed 
upon  his  tomb  :  "  I  sought  to  take  Rhodes  and  to  subdue  Italy/9 
was  a  perpetual  incentive  to  the  fiery  ambition  of  those  who 
inherited  his  throne.  Nor  did  it  fail  of  its  effect.  Bajazet  II., 
Selim  I.,  above  all,  Mahomet  II.,  the  captor  of  Rhodes,  made  this 
fierce  policy  the  study  of  their  lives.  Later  Sultans  had  continued, 
with  fanatical  tenacity,  to  point  their  arms  towards  the  West ;  and, 
but  a  few  years  before  the  date  of  which  we  are  speaking,  in  the 
summer  of  1683  a  Turkish  armament,  the  most  formidable  that 
ever  crossed  the  Danube,  had  carried  fire  and  sword  to  the  very 
gates  of  Yienna  itself.  The  prospect  of  peace,  therefore,  presented 
by  the  embassy  referred  to  above,  was  a  subject  of  general  exul- 
tation at  Yienna,  and  to  none  more  than  to  Leibnitz,  who,  as  we 
have  already  seen,  had  always  regarded  the  propagandist  pre- 
tensions  of  the  Turks  as  incompatible  alike  with  the  political 
tranquillity  and  the  religious  progress  of  Christendom. 

While  Leibnitz  was  engaged  in  his  researches  in  the  Imperial 
archives,  he  learned  the  news  of  another  event  which  was  destined 
to  exercise  a  great  influence  on  the  fortunes  of  the  house  which  he 
served,  and  indirectly,  also,  upon  his  own — the  EnglishRevolution 
of  1688.  By  the  exclusion  of  the  direct  heirs  of  James  II.  from 
the  throne,  a  way  was  opened  for  the  succession  of  the  Electress 
Sophia  and  her  family,  failing  the  heirs  of  the  princesses,  Mary 
and  Anne.  It  was  not,  however,  until  many  years  later,  after  the 
successive  deaths  of  the  numerous  children  of  Queen  Anne,  that 
this  prospect  began  to  assume  such  appearance  of  probability  as 
materially  to  affect  the  policy  of  the  House  of  Hanover. 

After  a  winter  of  laborious  exploration  in  the  archives  and 
libraries  of  Yienna,  Leibnitz  proceeded,  in  the  January  of  1689,  to 
the  north  of  Italy.  He  arrived  in  Yenice  in  the  beginning  of 
February ;  and,  before  proceeding  further  to  the  south,  he  made 
an  excursion]  into  Istria  for  the  purpose  of  visiting  the  mines  of 

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546  Leibnitz. 

that  rich  province.  An  anecdote,  which  is  told  of  this  journey  by 
his  biographer,  Eckhart,  is  an  amusing  illustration  oi  his  cool- 
ness and  presence  of  mind  in  danger — a  quality  which,  notwith- 
standing the  monotonous  and  unadventurous  character  of  his  life, 
he  appears  to  have  possessed  in  no  ordinary  degree.  On  his  voyage 
homewards,  his  boat  was  overtaken  by  one  of  those  sudden  storms 
which  are  so  usual,  and  often  so  fatal,  in  the  North  of  Italy.  The 
boatmen,  believing  Leibnitz  to  be  a  German  and  a  Protestant 
(with  neither  of  which  characters  they  had  much  sympathy),  and 
imagining  that  little  interest  would  be  taken,  and  little  inquiry 
made,  as  to  the  fate  of  a  stranger,  began  to  discuss  among  them- 
selves, in  their  rude  Lombard  patois,  the  propriety  of  throwing 
him  overboard  and  taking  possession  of  his  effects :  trusting  to  be 
able  to  explain  his  disappearance  by  asserting  that  he  had  perished 
in  the  storm.  It  is  easy  to  imagine  what  must  have  been  Leib- 
nitz's horror  during  this  discussion,  every  word  of  which  he 
understood.  He  had  the  coolness,  however,  to  conceal  it ;  and, 
without  betraying  the  least  alarm  or  emotion,  he  quietly  drew  a 
rosary  (which  he  chanced  to  carry  with  him)  out  of  his  pocket, 
and  began  to  tell  his  beads  with  every  appearance  of  unconscious 
devotion.  The  ruse  was  perfectly  successful.  The  boatmen  saw, 
or  thought  they  saw,  that  they  had  to  deal,  not  with  a  heretic,  as 
they  had  imagined,  but  with  a  good  Catholic  like  themselves. 
The  treacherous  scheme  was  at  once  abandoned.  But  Leibnitz 
never  afterwards  doubted  that  it  was  to  his  own  ready  ruse  he  was 
indebted  for  reaching  the  shore  in  safety. 


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TWO  LITTLE  ANGELS  * 

GOD  sent  your  little  angel  boy 
Upon  that  feast  of  tender  joy 
Which  saw  the  Virgin  Spouses  wed, 
Two  months  ago— and  he  is  dead ! 
Two  happy  months  for  him  and  you : 
How  swift  the  brimful  moments  flew 
While  the  sweet  nursling  took  his  rest 
Upon  the  proud  young  mother's  breast, 
Who  wondered  how  her  happy  hearth 
Had  not  seemed  lonely  ere  his  birth  I 
Not  lonely  now — he  fills  the  hours 
With  plenitude  of  baby  powers. 
Ah !  none  but  mothers  know  the  cares, 
The  joys,  the  griefs,  the  fears,  the  prayers, 
The  bitter  sweets  of  motherhood — 
Best  earthly  proof  that  God  is  good. 
How  many  vague,  bright  dreams  and  hopes 
Are  clustered  round  this  life  which  opes 
So  sunnily  m  winter  time — 
How  fair  will  be  its  summer  prime ! 
You  dreamed  your  boy  would  live  far  on 
Into  the  century  whose  dawn 
Is  still  fifteen  dark  years  away; 
Long  years  of  life,  you  fancied,  lay 
Before  him*    Ah !  not  years  but  hours ! 
God  often  culls  the  budding  flowers : 
Far  better  thus  perchance  for  them 
Than  left  to  wither  on  the  stem. 
Whatever  God  wills,  God's  will  be  blest. 
For  God  is  good,  and  God  knows  best. 
But  still  your  darling  throve  and  smiled, 
A  happy,  healthy,  ruddy  child, 
Till  on  his  own  sweet  festal  day 
Saint  Joseph  beckoned  him  away. 
Patron  of  happy  deaths,  is  this 
The  token  of  your  love  P    Your  kiss 
Welcomed  the  lovely  babe  to  heaven, 
When  God  took  back  what  He  had  given. 
Two  happy  months  of  mortal  breath. 
And  then  the  change  that  men  call  death. 

*  The  first  of  them  was  born  on  January  23rd,  Feast  of  Our  Lady's  Espousals, 
1885,  and  died  on  the  following  19th  of  March,  Feast  of  St  Joseph. 


/Google 


548  Two  Little  Angela. 

Thank  God,  his  very  death  was  bright ; 
He  did  not  pine  beneath  your  eight 
Bat  flew  in  all  his  infant  charms 
Up  to  the  Heavenly  Father's  arms— 
This  lambkin  of  the  Shepherd's  fold. 
This  spotless  creature  two  months  old. 
Poor  mother,  grudge  him  not  to  God. 
You  would  not  wish  him  to  have  trod 
The  weary  paths  of  toil  and  sin, 
While  he  so  soon  his  heaven  might  win. 
Nay,  grieve  not,  but  rejoice,  rejoice, 
For  hear  you  not  that  seraph  voice  P 
"Safe  oh  I  so  soon  o'er  life's  dark  sea — 
Dear  mother,  all  is  well  with  me." 
*  «  • 

Thus  had  I  sung,  yet  did  not  dare 
Upon  the  mourner's  meek  despair 
Such  trivial  solace  to  obtrude, 
"Until  the  stroke  which  seemed  so  rude 
Its  sanctifying  cure  had  wrought 
And  the  poor  childless  mother  sought 
'  The  strength  divine  to  bear  her  loss, 
like  Her  who  stood  beside  the  Cross. 
But  now  the  lonely  months  have  run, 
And  they  and  grace  their  work  have  done. 
The  anguish  keen  has  grown  to  be 
A  cheerful,  pensive  memory ; 
And  now,  to  that  bereaven  home 
The  best  of  comforters  has  come : 
The  first-born,  ne'er  to  be  forgot, 
Smiles  down  to  see  his  tiny  cot 
No  longer  tenantless,  for  there, 
With  cheeks  as  rosy,  brow  as  fair, 
Another  baby  angel  sleeps. 
What  jealous  ward  the  mother  keeps 
Lest  angels  steal  him,  too,  away ! 
But  no,  this  guest  has  come  to  stay, 
To  be  his  mother's  joy  and  pride 
And  grow  to  manhood  by  her  side, 
Helped  through  life's  duties  and  life's  cares 
By  his  young  elder  brother's  prayers. 

M. 


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LAST  RELICS  OF  AUGUSTUS  LAW,  S. J. 

BY  way  of  supplement  to  the  sketch  of  Father  Law  drawn 
from  his  published  letters  and  memoir,  a  few  notes  may  be 
added  from  unpublished  papers.  If  we  had  space,  we  should  wish 
to  draw  largely  from  a  selection  of  the  notes  of  his  private  medi- 
tations, which  the  Hon.  W.  Towry  Law  has  printed  but  not  pub- 
lished. They  were  put  down  on  paper  without  the  slightest  thought 
of  publication,  and  are  unconscious  revelations  of  his  beautiful 
character.  For  instance,  when  the  star  disappeared  from  the  sight 
of  the  Magi,  and  the  priests  and  scribes  gave  excellent  advice, 
which  they  did  not  themselves  act  upon,  he  makes  these  personal 
reflections : — 

Here  I  might  consider  well  what  I  generally  urge  in  sermons,  that  I  may  see 
how  I  practise  myself  what  I  teach. 

1.  I  recommend  much  the  living  with  God's  eye  on  us,  and  looking  for  Hi$ 
praise,  as  God's  judgment  is  the  only  one  worth  caring  for. 

2.  I  enlarge  much  upon  the  advantage  of  prayer,  and  speak  of  how  we 
ought  to  have  great  confidence,  looking  upon  it  as  an  immense  power. 

8.  I  remind  people  how ,  they  should  look  upon  themselves  as  "  Ulcus  et 
Apostenia,"  as  brands  rescued  from  hell,  if  they  have  committed  even  one  mor- 
tal sin  j  and  how  they  ought  to  live  in  a  penitential  spirit. 

4.  1  speak  much  about  the  immense  graces  promised  to  a  forgiving  and  merci- 
ful spirit,  and  say  that  people  should  be  delighted  to  get  an  opportunity  of  for- 
giving, since  the  reward  is  so  unspeakable. 

6.  I  exhort  much  to  recalling  often  to  mind  the  memory  of  Jesus  Christ, 
and  say  this  is  a  beginning  of  devotion  to  the  Sacred  Heart— and  I  repeat  often 
those  words,  "  Do  this  in  memory  of  Me." 

6.  I  exhort  people  always  to  look  upon  God  as  their  Father.  And  I  urge 
them  to  say  the  petitions  of  the. "  Our  Father  "  with  all  fervour.  I  recommend 
them  strongly  to  prepare  their  minds  before  beginning  prayer,  according  to  the 
addition  of  St.  Ignatius. 

7.  I  am  accustomed,  in  fact,  to  say  that  everything  depends  upon  how  we 
pray.  The  above  are  some  of  the  things  I  most  preach  upon.  Do  I  practise 
them  P    "Thou  therefore  that  teachest  another,  teachest  not  thyself." 

When  the  Jews  murmur  at  Jesus,  this  holy  soul  turns  fiercely 
against  himself.  "  Is  any  shame  left  in  me,  for  me  to  wish  for 
praise,  when  I  am  what  I  am,  especially  when  God  is  being  mur- 
mured atP"  And  in  another  place  he  puts  himself  far  below 
persons  of  whom  I  know  nothing,  and  who  are  not  likely  to  see 

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550  Last  Belies  of  Augustus  Law,  S.J. 

their  names  mentioned  here.  "  How  many  seculars  shame  me  to 
very  confusion  by  their  faith,  fervour,  piety,  devotion,  and  love. 
Yet  I  say  the  Breviary,  offer  up  the  Holy  Mass,  and  receive  our 
Lord  every  day.  There  was  Dr.  Cramer  so  full  of  devotion  and 
kindness  to  the  poor ;  Bynveld  with  suoh  innocence  of  life  ;  and 
so  many  others/' 

Let  us  give  the  first  of  three  notes  on  that  most  useful  subject, 
the  presence  of  God : — 

Holy  David  says: — "  Servavi  mandate  tua  et  testamonia  quia  omnes  visa  in 
conspectu  tuo,"  and  I  say  these  words  daily  at "  None.*'  Why  then  did  he  keep 
God's  commandments,  and  why  ought  I  do  bo  too  P  The  answer  is,  "  Quia 
omnes  visa  meaei  conspectu  tuo." 

It  is  the  simple  truth  that  we  learnt  as  children,  that  "  God  knows  and  sees 
all  things,  even  our  most  secret  thoughts; "  and  if  I  would  act  up  to  this  most 
simple  truth,  soon  there  would  be  a  happy  change  in  me.  .  .  .  "  Omnes  viae 
nieae."  These  words  suggest  to  me  a  method  of  meditating  this  truth — to  go 
through  all  the  actions  of  the  day,  and  then  to  remember  that  each  is  in  the 
sight  of  God — "  in  conspectu  tuo."  My  rising — meditation,  mass — breakfast — 
studies,  reading,  visits,  confessions,  sermons,  conversations,  breviary,  ezamens 
— these  are  "  visa  niese,"  and  God's  eye  is  on  them  all.  God's  eye  is  on  them 
all,  and  the  conclusion  ought  to  be  M  servavi  mandata  tua."  Is  it  ?  How  I 
forget  that  unsleeping  eye! — "  O  faStpriTOQ fy0aX/ioc *' — that  St.  Chrysostom 
speaks  so  much  of.  Yet  it  was  by  a  special  providence,  no  doubt,  that  my  dear 
mother,  on  her  death-bed,  said;to  me  : — Kemeraber — Thou,  God,  seest  me."  How 
shall  I  now  begin  to  live  with  that  eye  on  me  P 

These  notes  of  meditation  were  taken  early  in  his  priestly  life,  as 
the  following,  which  occurs  in  the  middle  of  them,  shows : — 

Nothing  so  easy  to  think  upon  as  death.  It  requires  no  effort  of  the  imagi- 
nation. There  it  is  before  us  at  every  turn.  Nothing  so  useful  as  its  thought. 
It  turns  all  worldly  pleasures  into  gall.  What  condemned  criminal  would  think 
of  gluttony  or  lust  the  morning  of  his  execution  P  At  death  we  should,  if  we 
could,  look  back.  I  can  put  myself  into  that  position.  I  look  back  upon  my 
past  life,  especially  that  passed  in  Religion.  .  •  .  And  still  more  that  passed  in 
the  Priesthood.  .  •  •  There  are  the  places  I  have  been  in — the  Noviceship, 
Seminary,  St  Acheul,  Glasgow,  St.  Beuno's,  Demerara,  Roehampton,  Black- 
pool. The  missions  I  have  given — Dalkeith,  Galashiels.  .  •  .  Now  about  to 
die,  what  do  I  think  of  these  places  ?  There  are  the  persons  I  have  had  to  do 
with.  The  scandals  I  have  given — now,  about  to  die,  what  do  I  think  of  them  P 
What  account  of  me  will  they  give  directly  before  God's  tribunal  ?  There  are 
my  duties  as  priest;  I  have  preached,  heard  confessions,  visited  people ;  now 
about  to  die,  what  do  I  think  of  them  ? 

At  death,  we  shall  look  forward.  Even  if  I  don't  I  shall  be  there  directly. 
1  look  forward,  then,  to  that  most  strict  and  searching  tribunal,  before  which, 
in  a  few  moments,  I  shall  stand.    All  those  things  I  have  been  looking  back  to 


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just  now,  will  be  brought  up  to  be  searched  into  before  that  tribunal.  It  will  be 
seen  whether  I  did  those  things,  and  secondly,  whether  I  had  true  repentance 
for  them.  How  then  shall  I  die  ?  An  eternal  friend  of  the  Almighty  God,  or 
an  eternal  enemy  of  the  Almighty,  Just,  and  Angry  God. 

The  following  are  only  some  out  of  many  excellent  reflections 
suggested  by  Magdalene  anointing  the  feet  of  our  Divine 
Redeemer : — 

With  what  devotion  she  did  this  I  And  our  Lord  defended  her  against 
criticism  and  grumbling,  and  said  wherever  the  Gospel  should  be  preached,  this, 
her  action,  should  be  told.  What  a  reward  1  And  our  Lord  has  a  reward  also 
for  each  act  of  devotion  that  we  perform.  And  we  are  able  to  honour  Jesus, 
and,  so  to  speak,  anoint  his  feet  in  two  ways:  (1)  By  showing  reverence  to  the 
Blessed  Sacrament.  How  and  in  what  way  may  I  show  reverence  to  the 
Blessed  Sacrament?  (2)  By  showing  charity  and  mercy  and  kindness  to  the 
"least  of  His  brethren."  How  may  I  do  this?  Next,  I  may  think  what  are 
the  things  I  would  do  and  say  if  I  were  with  Mary  Magdalene  at  His  sacred 
feet.  ...  I  must  ask  to  be  allowed  to  assist  with  her  at  His  feet,  and  there  to 
do  and  say  what  it  is  fitting  I,  such  a  great  sinner,  should  do  and  say.  How 
lavish  she  is  I  The  ointment  she  uses  is  of  great  price.  When  she  considers 
who  it  is  whose  feet  she  is  to  anoint,  she  does  not  think  of  the  expense.  And, 
indeed,  we  cannot  be  too  generous  when  Jesus  Christ  is  in  question.  Here* 
then,  I  may  think  of  my  stinginess  with  Qod — always  begrudging  Him  first 
fruits.  He  comes  second,  not  first.  Breviary,  meditation,  examens,  &c,  should 
come  first  Whereas  as  often,  if  a  pleasant  book  or  companion,  .  .  .  present 
themselves,  they  get  the  first  place.  My  God,  I  do  not  know  you,  nor  love  you 
—else  I  should  not  treat  you  thus.  What  will  you  do  then,  my  soul  ?  I  must 
sacrifice  something  for  the  love  of  Jesus.  Fine  words  are  not  enough.  I  must 
anoint  his  feet  by  first  paying  for  the  ointment. 

It  helps  me  much  when  I  find  such  a  station,  as  Mary  Magdalene's,  to  put 
myself  there  when  praying,  e.g.y  saying  the  Breviary  at  our  Lord's  sacred  feet 
whilst  she  anoints  His  feet  with  the  precious  ointment. 

This  little  paper  will  appear  in  October,  which  is  the  Month  of 
the  Holy  Rosary.  Before  turning  away  from  this  holy  book 
which,  as  I  said,  is  printed  but  not  published,  we  must  give  Father 
Law's  thoughts  about  the  Rosary.  In  another  place  he  says :  "  I 
hold  the  rosary,  and  it  is  like  making  Mary  present,  like  holding 
the  skirt  of  her  blessed  mantle."  This  page  seems  rather  to  be  a 
note  for  a  sermon  than  a  note  of  a  meditation : — 

1.  There  is  no  devotion  in  the  Church  sweeter  than  the  Rosary,  and  none 
more  powerful.  Why  this  is  we  now  consider.  And  first,  it  breathes  nothing 
but  Jesus  and  Mary,  than  whom  nothing  can  be  sweeter.  Its  fifteen  scenes 
place  them  before  us  and  put  us  in  their  blessed  presence.  Saying  the  Kosary  is 
holding  sweet  converse  with  Mary,  and  speaking  to  her  about  her  Divine  Son, 


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552  Last  Relies  of  Augustus  Law,  S.J. 

and  about  herself.  And  what  can  be  more  powerful  to  keep  us  from  sin,  and 
to  plant  virtue  in  us,  than  to  live  with  Jesus  and  Mary,  to  talk  with  them,  to 
accustom  ourselves  to  their  ways  of  thinking,  speaking,  and  acting,  which  we  do 
by  being  much  in  their  company— at  one  moment  being  present  at  the  manger, 
at  another  at  the  foot  of  the  cross,  at  another  seeing  our  Lord  and  His  blessed 
Mother  in  heaven.  But  then  we  are  reminded  in  the  Rosary  that  this  medita- 
tion and  contemplation  of  our  Lord's  life  is  not  to  be  a  mere  speculation,  but  it 
is  to  bear  its  own  proper  fruit, — that  fruit  is  expressed  in  the  petitions  of  the 
Our  Father  and  Hail  Mary.  We  look  at  our  Lord  and  our  blessed  Lady,  and 
our  hearts  get  warmed  and  seek  for  an  outlet  in  words.  At  once  there  are  the 
ardent  petitions  of  the  Our  Father  and  Hail  Mary,  which  will  express  the  most 
ardent  desires  that  any  saint  ever  had.  In  a  word,  there  is  nothing  like  the 
mysteries  of  the  Eosary  to  excite  us  to  pray ;  nothing  like  the  two  prayers, 
Pater  and  Ave,  to  express  what  we  would  pray  for.  For,  whether  you  are  in  joy 
or  sorrow,  in  hope  or  in  fear,  near  God  or  far  away  from  God,  still  those  two 
prayers  will  always  fall  in  with  your  desires,  and  exactly  suit  your  particular 
circumstances.  Bat  all  this  and  much  more  is  better  understood  by  using  the 
Rosary  than  by  talking  of  its  use. 

2.  "Totum  nos  voluit  habere  per  Mariam  "  (St  Bernard).  And  this  is  just 
what  is  admirably  done  in  the  Rosary ;  all  the  fruit  of  our  Blessed  Lord's 
infancy,  passion,  resurrection,  and  ascension  is  given  us  through  Mary's  hands. 
And  who  can  walk  with  us  hand  in  hand  through  our  Lord's  life  and  Passion 
and  glorified  life  better  than  Mary  P  Who  can  teach  us  to  meditate  these 
mysteries  better  than  she  who  "  kept  all  these  pondering  them  in  her  heart?  " 

8.  There  is  no  devotion  that  can  be  better  fitted  to  the  devotion  of  the 
Sacred  Heart*  to  which  such  treasures  are  promised.  For  since  this  last  devo- 
tion consists  in  showing  gratitude  and  love  for  love,  and  since  both  of  these  are 
founded  upon  often  calling  to  mind  all  our  Lord  has  done  for  us,  it  is  easy  to  see 
that  this  is  just  what  is  done  in  the  Rosary.  Have  then,  my  soul,  a  great  love 
for  the  Rosary. 

One  of  the  industries  by  which  Augustas  Law,  before  his  ordi- 
nation, prepared  to  work  upon  souls  was  the  collecting  of  pious 
anecdotes  which  might  be  used  in  catechetical  instructions.  Very 
probably  it  was  a  sacrifice  for  him,  but  one  would  never  guess  it 
from  the  cheerful,  spontaneous  way  in  which  he  handed  over  to 
me  a  book  of  this  sort  in  which  he  had  gathered  together,  with  a 
few  little  stories,  a  good  many  references  to  Alban  Butler,  the 
Bollandists,  Rodriguez,  &c.,  for  materials  of  this  kind  grouped 
under  the  articles  of  the  Apostles'  Creed,  the  Commandments,  the 
Sacraments,  &c.  This  book,  with  many  of  the  blank  places  filled 
up  since  in  a  less  clear,  less  upright,  and  less  self-restrained  hand- 
writing, lies  now  before  me,  and  on  the  first  page  is  written :  "  Pray 
for  A.  Law,  8. J.,  June  1st,  1864."    This  inscription  suggested  the 

*  This  idea  has  just  been  carried  out  admirably  by  an  Irish  lady,  to  whom  this 
page  will  be  the  first  intimation  that  she  was  forestalled  so  many  years  ago  in  the  plan 
of  her  "  Little  Rosary  of  the  Sacred  Heart "  (Dublin  :  M.  H.  Gill  and  Son). 


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rhyme  which  may  here  be  transferred  from  page  75  of  "  Erin, 
Verses  Irish  and  Catholic/'  where  a  note  explains  the  emphasis  laid 
on  shall  and  trill  by  stating  that  Dean  Alford's  Queen's  English  was 
much  discussed  among  us  at  the  time  these  lines  were  written. 

Pray  for  thee  P    Yes.    I've  sometimes  said 

Yes  to  that  parting  word,  and  paid 

Slight  heed  unto  my  promise — now 

I  utter  it  as  half  a  vow, 

And  pray  for  thee  I  shall  and  will. 

Howe'er  our  happy  lot  may  fill 

The  days  with  duties,  Memory 

Will  ever  keep  a  nook  for  thee, 

And  pray  for  thee  I  will  and  shall. 

Again  those  little  twin-Terns  all 

Their  subtle  shades  of  sense  combine 

To  emphasise  my  vow,  to  twine 

A  chain  around  my  heart  and  thine — 

A  triple  chain  of  loving  thoughts, 

Hail  Marys  and  forget-me-nots — 

A  rosary  of  altar-prayer 

Which  may  unite  us  everywhere 

Until  that  end  which  is  no  end 

But  true  beginning :  pray,  O  friend ! 

That  thou,  O  genial  soul  and  dear ! 

May*st  be  my  brother  there,  as  here! 

In  this  collection  of  pious  anecdotes,  the  first  note  in  Father 
Law's  handwriting  is  this.  "  Father  Martin  Ghittierez,  S.  J.,  got 
Suarez  to  write  a  treatise  showing  that  more  graces  and  heavenly 
treasures  were  bestowed  on  Mary  than  all  the  angels  and  saints 
together.  For  which  the  Blessed  Virgin  appeared  to  him  and 
thanked  him.  Another  time  she  appeared  to  him,  covering  with 
her  mantle  the  whole  Society."  Under  the  head  of  " Penance" 
he  writes :  "A  brother  officer  of  mine  in  the  R.N.,  converted  from 
a  sinful  life,  asked  me  (then,  too,  a  Protestant)  whether  one  could 
be  baptized  again.  What  does  this  show  but  the  natural  yearning 
of  man  for  a  sacrament  for  sins  after  baptism  P  "  And  in  the  same 
page  he  translates  thus  from  the  Bollandists  (February  22), 
"  Saint  Margaret  of  Gortona  at  the  beginning  of  her  conversion, 
was  called  by  our  Lord  Paupercula  ['  poor  little  thing ! ']  She 
begged  our  Lord  with  tears  to  tell  her  when  He  would  call  her 
Filia.  He  said  that,  when  she  had  made  a  full  general  confession, 
He  would  call  her  Filia.     'For  as  yet  (He  said)  you  are  filia  pec- 


554  Last  Relics  of  Augustus  Law,  S.J. 

cati.'  After  a  confession  of  eight  days  and  Holy  Communion  she 
heard  Jesus  calling  her  filia,  and  could  have  died  of  joy.  When 
she  came  to  herself,  she  cried  out :  *  O  infinite  sweetness  of  God  ! 
O  day  promised  by  thee,  O  Christ !  0  word  full  of  sweetness  I 
Thou  callest  me  Filia.  O  word  long  desired,  ardently  sighed  for, 
word  sweet  to  the  thought.  My  God  says,  Filia  tnea,  my  Jesus 
says,  Filia mea" 

At  the  time  that  Father  Law  gave  me  this  manuscript  book  of 
stories  (or  rather  for  stories),  he  wrote  out  for  me  at  greater 
length  the  following  narrative,  ending  with  a  message  which  will 
now  be  delivered  for  the  first  time  after  a  delay  of  twenty-two 
years,  as  I  find  by  a  little  sum  in  substraction,  the  result  of  which 
startled  me  so  much  that  I  had  to  go  over  it  twice  in  my  mind. 
One  of  those  whose  names  we  venture  to  give  in  full  is  beyond 
the  reach  of  all  messages  except  prayers — Father  Stanley  Mathews, 
S  J.,  Rector  of  Belvidere  College,  Great  Denmark-street,  Dublin, 
died  on  the  last  day  of  the  year  1878.  May  he  rest  in  peace  ! 
And  may  the  transcriber  be  forgiven  for  delaying  so  long  to  fulfil 
the  commission  entrusted  to  him  of  "  spreading  this  story  or  at 
least  its  principles  "  : — 

"  Consolation  for  Religious  and  their  relatives. 
"  A  young  man  entered  the  Sooiety  of  Jesus  in  France.    His 
father  and  brother  who  were  without  religion  sailed  for  some-' 
where,  but  were  shipwrecked.    When  the  news  came,  the  Jesuit, 
of  course,  feared  much  for  their  souls.     Many  years  later,  he  was 
visiting  an  hospital  and  was  asked  to  see  a  soldier  sick,  both  in 
body  and  soul.    He  found  the  poor  fellow  was  his  brother.    He 
did  not  make  himself  known,  fearing  to  overtax  the  strength  of 
the  sick  man,  but  went  straight  home  to  consult  his  Superior,  who 
after  reflecting,  told  him  not  to  return,  but  to  leave  his  brother  to 
the  mercy  of  God,  and  not  to  trouble  himself  about  him.     Upon 
this  the  Jesuit  Father  had  a  strong  temptation  which  he  gene- 
rously rejected.   A  few  days  afterwards  his  residence  was  changed. 
Four  years  later  the  Father  was  giving  a  Mission.     A  good 
woman  came  into  the  sacristy  and  said :  '  I  am  not  come  to  con- 
fession, but  from  the  Cure,  who  ordered  me  to  tell  you  from  our 
Blessed  Lady  that  your  father,  who  was  shipwrecked  fifteen  years 
ago,  sunk  to  the  bottom,  made  a  good  act  of  contrition,  and  was 
saved.'    The  Jesuit  who  had  never  seen  the  woman  before,  and 
whom  she  now  saw  for  the  first  time,  was  astonished*    She  seemed 
a  simple,  poor  woman,  but  was  far  advanced  in  the  ways  of  God. 
She  went  on :  "  Tour  brother,  whom  you  saw  four  years  ago. 

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saved  himself  with  difficulty  on  a  plank,  and  his  salvation  was 
attached  to  the  act  of  obedience  you  performed  on  his  account. 
He  died  two  days  afterwards  in  excellent  dispositions.  I  must 
also  tell  you  that  our  Blessed  Lady  desires  that  you  should 
know  that  there  are  scarcely  any  souls  who  have  relations  in  religion 
who  are  lost ;  for  Almighty  God  is  so  pleased  with  the  sacrifice 
made  to  Him  by  a  soul  in  religion  that,  in  virtue  of  this  act,  He 
gives  so  many  graces  to  all  their  relations  to  save  themselves,  that 
there  are  very  few  of  them  that  are  not  saved.  [Letter  of  a  Car- 
melite Nun  in  Belgium.  The  Jesuit  was  still  living  when  she 
wrote  in  I860.] 

"  And  now,  old  Russell,  I  hope  you  won't  forget  to  pray  for 
him  who  wrote  this  for  you,  and  to  spread  this  story,  or,  at  least, 
its  principles.  And  I  hereby  commemorate  all  my  dear  brothers  in 
religion  of  the  sister  Isle  (it  is  a  sister  isle  to  me),  Scully,  Eorke, 
Moore,  Mathews,  Keating,  Corcoran,  et  si  qui  sint  alii.  Dear  old 
fellows,  may  God  and  his  holy  Mother  bless  them.    Fiat,  fiat !" 

With  these  papers  of  Father  Law's  a  little  scrap  was  mixed 
up  by  accident,  which  was  meant  for  no  eye  but  his  own.  It  is 
not  a  note  of  the  matter  of  one  of  his  meditations,  but  of  his 
manner  of  making  his  meditation  on  some  particular  morning,  as 
far  back  as  the  year  1853,  during  his  noviceship.  I  risk  the  indis- 
cretion of  printing  it  in  full,  exactly  as  it  stands  :  — 

"August  9.  Beati  pacifici.  1.  Difficulty  in  commencing: 
tolerably  fervent  last  three-quarters  [of  the  hour  allowed  to  the 
morning  meditation].  2.  The  reward  for  the  peace-makers  is  to 
be  called  children  of  God.  This  is  true  nobility.  The  way  to 
make  this  peace  with  God,  my  neighbour,  and  myself  is  Humility. 
3.  Acts  of  Humiliation/' 

What  acts  of  this  kind  he  determined  on  he  does  not  specify ; 
but  he  goes  on  to  say :  "  On  Sunday  last  I  had  got  a  lot  to  say 
to  F.  Clarke  which  I  thought  I  should  have  some  difficulty  in 
getting  out.  However,  I  made  a  resolution  to  tell  him  all  I  had 
on  the  paper.  When  it  was  "  my  turn  next "  at  his  door,  a  temp- 
tation came  to  leave  out  some  things  as  of  no  consequence.  How- 
ever, I  was  inspired  by  my  Creator  to  pray,  and  I  told  all  without 
the  least  reserve,  better  than  ever  I  did  before.  Since  then,  I 
have  felt  a  happy  confidence  that  in  all  my  troubles  and  anxieties 
I  have  a  most  kind  and  dear  friend  in  Father  Clarke/' 

Inspired  by  my  Creator.  That  is  very  like  St.  Ignatius's  way 
of  speaking  of  God,  whom  he  hardly  ever  names  without  some 
epithet  denoting  awe  and  reverence.    I  find  appended  by  an 

Digitized  by  VjUUV  Iv, 


656  .  Last  Relics  of  Augustus  Law,  S.J. 

eavesdropper  to  this  utterly  private  note  an  annotation,  which 
itself  is  more  than  twenty  years  old,  and  will  show  the  impression 
made  by  "  Mr.  Law  "  before  he  was  yet  a  priest : — "  Thus  felt  that 
candid,  noble  soul,  who,  a  year  before,  had  been  a  dashing  young 
officer  in  the  Royal  Navy,  nephew  to  Lord  EUenborough,  Ac. 
What  temptations  to  worldliness  and  worse  than  worldliness! 
Ah !  God  knew  whom  He  was  trying — He  did  not  expose  me  to 
such  perils  before  calling  me  into  His  Society." 

Back  volumes  of  The  Messenger  of  the  Sacred  Heart,  fifteen 
years  old,  are  sufficiently  inaccessible  to  be  considered  inidits,  and 
suited  to  the  purposes  of  the  present  paper.  But  we  can  only 
name  a  few  of  Father  Law's  contributions  which  appeared  in 
1872  and  1873.  In  November  and  December  of  the  former  year, 
his  little  suggestive  papers  are  rsigned  Lex  Fidelis — a  whimsical 
signature  devised  by  the  genial  editor,  the  late  Father  William 
Maher,  because  his  contributor's  name  was  "  Law/9  and  because 
he  was  "faithful"  to  a  promise  he  had  given  of  writing  for  The 
Messenger.  In  March,  1873,  "  A.  L."  puts  together  some  very 
beautiful  principles  and  practices  about  prayer,  used  by  Blessed 
Peter  Faber,  the  first  priest  of  the  Society  of  Jesus.  In  "  A  Dia- 
logue/' which  runs  through  the  summer  months  of  that  same 
year,  he  joins  quaintly  together  his  old  love  and  new — sailor-life 
and  the  writings  of  St.  Chrysostom.  The  captain  of  a  vessel,  living 
at  the  time  of  the  saint,  retails  to  a  passenger  his  recollections  of 
sermons  he  had  heard  from  the  holy  patriarch  at  Constantinople. 
Father  Law's  style  resembles  his  handwriting,  not  particularly 
striking  or  fluent  or  graceful,  but  very  clear  and  honest,  and 
bringing  home  its  meaning  well.  I  do  not  know  how  close  his 
captain  keeps  to  the  Greek  text  in  this  passage — on  the  true  office 
of  sorrow — which  he  gives  as  a  sample  of  St.  John  Chrysostom : — 

"  God  has  given  you  the  power  of  sorrowing ;  and  why,  and  to 
what  end  P  For  no  other  end  but  that  you  may  use  it  to  wash 
away  your  sins.  Let  an  example  show  how  true  this  is.  Medi- 
cines were  made  for  those  diseases  only  that  they  can  cure,  and 
are  useful  for  those  alone.  For  instance,  if  a  medicine  has  been 
tried  for  many  diseases  and  has  failed  in  curing  any  of  them,  but 
when  applied  in  the  case  of  one  disease  has  cured  it  at  once,  we  at 
once  conclude  that  that  medicine  was  made  for  that  disease  and 
that  alone.  Now,  sorrow  is  a  medicine ;  apply  it  then  in  the  case 
of  all  the  miseries  of  this  life,  and  see  which  it  heals,  and  learn 
from  that  for  what  it  was  made,  and  why  the  power  of  sorrowing 
was  implanted  into  our  hearts  by  God.    You  have  lost  all  your 

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Last  Belies  of  Augustus  Law,  S.J.  557 

property  and  are  reduced  to  beggary ; — add  sorrow ;  does  it  give 
you  back  your  riches  P  No ;  it  was  not  then  made  for  loss  of 
riches.  You  are  annoyed  and  insulted  and  injured  by  your 
neighbour ; — add  sorrow,  and  what  do  you  gain  by  the  addition  P 
Does  it  lessen  the  annoyance,  or  recall  the  insult,  or  compensate 
for  the  injury  P  No  ;  it  was  not  then  made  for  annoyances,  or 
insults,  or  injuries.  You  have  lost  a  dear  wife  or  child — you 
grieve,  lament,  sorrow.  Does  this  recall  your  wife  or  child  to 
life  P  No ;  such  grief  is  natural,  but  it  heals  nothing  here.  It 
was  not  then  made  for  loss  of  wife  or  children.  You  are  on  a  sick 
bed,  you  lose  patience,  you  sorrow.  Does  this  help  you  P  No ;  it 
only  increases  your  sickness.  It  was  not  then  made  for  sickness. 
But  you  have  sinned,  and  you  sorrow  for  your  sin,  and  at  once 
the  sin  is  forgiven.  Sorrow  was  made  then  for  sin,  and  for  sin 
alone.  For  it  was  used  as  a  medicine  for  other  miseries  and 
failed  to  cure  them.  Applied  to  sin  it  cures  it  at  once.  *  Blessed 
are  they  that  mourn  for  they  shall  be  comforted'  " 

None  of  the  volumes  printed  by  his  father's  pious  care  contain 
the  following  verses,  written  by  Father  Law,  for  some  feast  of 
St.  Gertrude  (November  15),  who  was  the  patroness  of  his  kind 
friend,  the  Mother  Superior  of  the  Convent  of  Our  Lady  of  Good 
Hope,  Grahamstown,  South  Africa.  In  the  Church's  prayer  for 
the  Feast,  God  is  said  to  have  "  prepared  for  Himself  a  plea- 
sant dwelling  in  the  heart  of  St.  Gertrude " — qui  in  corde  beatm 
Gertrudis  Virginis  jucundam  ttbi  mansionem  praparasti.  This  is 
the  key-note  of  this  strain,  which  evidently  was  made  for  some 
particular  tune : — 

The  Sacred  Heart  is  full  of  joy : 
Why  'tis  so,  angels,  say ! 

Ah !  joyously  you  answering  sing — 
It  is  Saint  Gertrude's  Day. 

O  Lover  of  the  Sacred  Heart! 

Saint  Gertrude,  hear  our  prayer, 
And  make  us  love  what  thou  didst  love — 
Oh !  grant  this  treasure  rare. 

O  blessed  Gertrude,  in  thy  heart 

Our  Jesus  found  his  rest — 
Made  there  his  happy  dwelling-place, 

Ah  me!  how  thou  wert  blest! 

O  Lover  of  the  Sacred  Heart!  &c. 

O  blessed  Gertrude,  tell  me  why 

He  chose  thy  heart  for  this ; 

And  tell  me  how  my  sinful  heart 

May  share  in  part  such  bliss. 

O  Lover  of  the  Sacred  Heart  I  &c. 
Vol.  xiv.  No.  160.  ^WS  K 


558  Last  Belies  qf  Augustus  Law,  8.  J. 

*  I  loved  to  dwell  in  that  dear  Heart, 
He  loved  to  dwell  in  mine. 
If  thou  dost  love  the  Sacred  Heart, 
He'll  love  to  dwell  in  thine." 

O  Lover  of  the  Sacred  Heart !  &c. 

As  friend  to  friend,  as  spouse  to  bride. 

Did  Jesus  speak  to  thee : 
What  wonder,  then,  that  pleasant  place 

He  found,  dear  Saint,  in  thee  P 

0  Lover  of  the  Sacred  Heart !  &c. 

Devotion  to  the  Sacred  Heart 

Was  Gertrude's  richest  store ; 
And  still  her  eyes  are  bent  on  It, 

And  will  be  evermore. 

O  Lover  of  the  Sacred  Heart !  &c. 

Then  love  for  love  and  gratitude 

And  reparation  due — 
'Tie  this  our  Jesus  asks  of  us 

And  meets  response  from  few. 

O  Lover  of  the  Sacred  Heart !  &c. 

Father  Law  himself  had  an  ardent  devotion  to  the  Sacred 
Heart  of  our  Lord.  Daring  his  second  term  of  work  in  Scotland, 
he  wrote  to  me  once,  proposing  to  write  about  this  devotion  in  a 
way  suited  to  make  it  attractive  to  men  of  the  world.  I  know 
not  what  answer  I  sent,  but  I  know  what  answer  I  ought  to  have 
sent  at  onc$.  Among  the  numerous  sources  of  contrition  and 
wholesome  self-reproach  that  are  open  to  most  of  us,  one  that 
perhaps  is  not  sufficiently  drawn  upon  is  the  thought  of  all  the 
good  that  we  might  have  induced  others  to  do,  if  we  had  given 
due  help  and  encouragement  at  the  proper  moment  and  in  the 
proper  manner.  In  that  same  original  series  of  The  Messenger  qf 
the  Sacred  Heart,  to  which  Father  Law  has  made  us  look  back, 
the  present  writer  invented  an  epithet  to  describe  this  kiphiUne 
mode  of  doing  good  in  a  passage  which,  for  the  benefit  of  his  pre- 
sent readers  and  of  the  present  magazine,  he  disinters  from  a 
faded  scrap,  printed  in  January,  1870 : — 

"  And  now,  what  may  we  ask  of  our  kind  readers  but — to  be 
our  kind  readers  P  Those  who  read  are  rarely  unkind.  The 
hardest  critics  are  generally  such  as  qualify  themselves  for  their 
office  by  not  reading  what  they  criticise.  However,  these  remarks 
are  out  of  place  here.    Our  readers  will  show  their  kindness  chiefly 

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Last  Belies  of  Augustus  Law,  S.J.  559 

by  trying  to  infect  others  with  the  same.  And  the  practical  proof 
of  kindness  is,  to  increase,  even  by  a  unit,  the  circulation  of  our 
periodical.  You  yourself,  dear  reader,  do  you  subscribe  P  Per- 
haps you  cannot  do  so  yourself.  Is  there  no  one — are  there  not 
two  or  three  whom  you  could  induce  to  perform  this  little  work  of 
zeal  ?  In  the  Hebrew  Grammar  there  is  a  conjugation  of  verbs  in 
hiphil;  which  means,  to  make  others  do  the  thing  in  question.  In 
this  hiphiline  method  of  subscribing  there  must  always  be  a  little 
forcing,  a  little  gentle  browbeating,  to  overcome  the  vis  inertia, 
the  apathy,  which  seems  to  weigh  most  upon  the  religious  public. 
The  children  of  this  world  are  wiser  in  their  generation  than  the  chil- 
dren of  light,  and  they  are  also  more  energetic,  perhaps,  in  their 
propagandism  of  their  peculiar  feelings  and  doctrines.  '  Treat 
people  as  if  they  were  what  they  ought  to  be,  and  you  help  to 
make  them  what  they  ought  to  be/  This  German  saying 
(Goethe's,  I  think),  may  be  applied  to  the  encouragement  of 
Catholic  literature.  Such  encouragement,  generously  given,  enables 
the*  object  of  it  to  become  more  worthy  of  encouragement.  A 
Priest,  a  Religious,  can  do  much  for  the  success  of  such  a  modest 
little  enterprise  (for  instance)  as  this." 

The  same  periodical,  from  which  this  extract  is  taken,  gives  in 
its  May  Number  of  this  current  year,  "  Father  Law's  Prayer  to 
Our  Lady  "  :— 

"  0  Immaculate  Virgin  Mary,  my  Lady  and  my  dear  Mother ! 
I  wish  to  belong  entirely  to  Jesus  and  to  you. 

"  For  this  I  give  you  my  eyes,  my  ears,  my  tongue,  my  whole 
self.  Do  you  take  care  of  me,  but  above  all  things  preserve  me 
from  every  sin,  especially  sins  against  purity,  which  is  so  dear 
to  you. 

"  Bless  me,  0  Daughter  of  the  Eternal  Father,  and  do  not 
permit  me  ever  to  offend  my  good  God  in  thought. 

"  Bless  me,  0  Mother  of  the  Eternal  Son,  and  do  not  permit 
me  ever  to  offend  my  good  God  in  word. 

"  Bless  me,  0  Spouse  of  the  Holy  Spirit,  and  do  not  permit  me 
ever  to  offend  my  good  God  in  deed  or  omission.  But  make  me 
always  to  love  Him  with  my  whole  heart,  and  to  cause  Him  to  be 
loved  by  others  I 

"  So  be  it,  O  sweet,  0  pious,  0  loving  Virgin  Mary !  " 

To  fix  this  prayer  in  our  minds,  let  us  advert  to  the  order  in 
which  our  thoughts,  words,  and  deeds  are  here  specially  conse- 
crated to  the  Three  Divine  Persons.  If  we  were  left  to  settle  this 
point  for  ourselves,  we  might  think  of  the  Holy  Ghost  as  the  inspirer 

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560  In  Sonorem  Eduardi  Confessoris. 

of  good  thoughts,  and  of  God  the  Father,  as  the  Maker,  the 
Worker,  the  Doer,  the  Source  of  all  energy  and  activity ;  and  so 
we  might  reverse  the  order  of  the  Confiteor — "  cogitatione,  verbo, 
et  opere."  But  thoughts  come  first,  and  what  theology  dares  to 
say  about  the  relations  of  the  Persons  of  the  Adorable  Trinity 
harmonises  with  the  order  followed  by  Father  Law  in  this  little 
prayer.  A  primary  concept  with  regard  to  Gtod  as  a  personal 
cause  is  that  He  is  a  thinking  Being.  To  the  Divine  Word  our 
words  are  appropriately  consecrated ;  and,  as  the  Holy  Ghost  is 
the  Sanctifier,  the  Giver  of  all  good  gifts,  in  whom  only  can  we 
say,  "  Lord  Jesus ! " — to  the  Blessed  Virgin,  as  His  Spouse,  we 
pray  specially  that  she  may  pray  for  us  and  hinder  us  from  resist- 
ing His  inspirations,  so  that  we  may  always  do  what  the  Holy 
Spirit  prompts  us  to  do,  and  omit  what  He  forbids.  Attending  to 
this  order  of  ideas,  and  translating  the  concluding  invocation  of 
the  Salve  Regina,  in  the  manner  suggested  by  the  Rev.  Gerald 
Molloy,  D.D.,  in  The  Irish  Ecclesiastical  Record,  it  is  easy  to  fasten 
in  one's  memory  the  pith  of  Father  Law's  prayer.  "  Bless  me,  O 
Daughter  of  the  Eternal  Father,  and  never  let  me  offend  my  good 
God  by  thought.  Bless  me,  O  Mother  of  the  Eternal  Son,  and 
never  let  me  offend  my  good  God  by  word.  Bless  me,  O  Spouse 
of  the  Holy  Ghost,  and  never  let  me  offend  my  good  God  by  deed 
or  omission.  So  be  it,  0  clement,  0  tender,  O  sweet  Virgin  Mary." 
This  may  fitly  be  the  last  of  these  relics  of  Augustus  Law, 
Priest  of  the  Society  of  Jesus,  whose  wasted  body  was  deposited  in 
an  unknown  and  unmarked  spot,  near  Umzila's  kraal,  in  the  heart 
of  heathen  Africa,  in  the  last  days  of  November,  1880,  and  whose 
pure  soul  has  ever  since,  as  we  may  trust,  been  happy  in  the  bosom 
of  God,  who  will  reward  the  virtues  and  sacrifices  of  life  with  a 
blessed  eternity. 


IN  HONOREM  EDUARDI  CONFESSORIS. 

"  T  ONG  live  our  good  King  Edward ! "  was  of  yore 
■L*    The  cry  in  Albion ;  and  again — "  Restore 
The  laws  of  Edward ! "  was  the  people's  prayer, 
When  he,  the  King-Sain t,  was  no  longer  there. 
That  Saxon  name  is  dearer  to  us  now 
Since  Glongowes'  crown  bedecks  the  Celtic  brow 
Of  one  who  bears  that  name  and  wields  to-day 
O'er  realm  more  loving  a  yet  holier  sway. 
Long  may  he  reign !  Ah !  far  too  long,  I  fear, 
For  still  he  reigns  in  grateful  bosoms  here. 
JSt.  Francis  Xavier's,  Oct.  18, 1882. 

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(    561    ) 


NEW  BOOKS. 

1.  October  is  the  Month  of  the  Holy  Rosary,  and  it  is,  therefore,  an 
appropriate  date  for  the  publication  of  "  The  Little  Rosary  of  the 
Sacred  Heart"  (Dublin:  M.  H.  Gill  and  Son),  which,  however,  is 
suited  for  every  month  in  the  year.  In  an  earlier  page  of  this  number 
a  passage  is  quoted  from  private  notes  of  the  holy  and  amiable  Father 
Augustus  Law,  S.J.,  in  which  is  forestalled  the  idea  that  suggested 
itself  independently  to  the  writer  of  this  beautiful  book.  It  will,  with 
the  blessing  of  God,  increase  the  love  of  many  heart*,  especially  young 
hearts,  towards  the  Sacred  Heart  of  Jesus;  and  it  will  enable  many 
also  to  perform  the  cherished  devotion  of  the  Rosary  with  more  plea- 
sure and  more  advantage.  The  deep  spirit  of  piety  which  pervades 
these  pages  is  not  hindered  but  greatly  helped  by  the  excellent  literary 
form  which  is  here  conspicuously  present,  but  which,  unhappily,  is 
conspicuously  absent  from  many  pious  and  well-intentioned  productions. 
We  warn  our  readers  that  these  praises  are  bestowed  on  a  very  small 
book  of  an  unpretending  kind  which  only  does  exceedingly  well  what 
it  proposes  to  do. 

2.  Messrs.  Burns  and  Oates — who  have  just  added  "  Limited  "  to 
the  style  and  title  of  their  firm,  and  who  also  describe  themselves  as 
"Publishers  to  Pope  Leo  XIII.,  and  Contractors  to  her  Majesty's 
Government " — have  produced  with  their  usu&l  taste,  the  stately  volume 
which  contains  the  last  of  an  important  series  of  spiritual  writings  by 
the  venerable  Bishop  of  Birmingham.  The  third  and  concluding 
volume  consists  of  a  course  of  lectures  on  "  Christian  Patience,  the 
Strength  and  Discipline  of  the  Soul."  There  is  no  more  interesting 
page  in  it  than  that  which  contains  the  following  dedication : — 

"  To  Sis  Eminence  the  Moat  Illustrious  and  Most  Reverend  Cardinal 
Newman.  My  Dear  Lord  Cardinal — I  do  not  forget  that  your  first 
public  appearance  in  the  Catholic  Church  was  at  my  consecration  to 
the  Episcopate,  and  that  since  that  time  forty  years  of  our  lives  have 
passed,  during  which  you  have  honoured  me  with  a  friendship  and  a 
confidence  that  have  much  enriched  my  life.  Deeply  sensible  of  the 
incalculable  services  which  you  have  rendered  to  the  Church  at  large 
by  your  writings,  and  to  this  Diocese  of  your  residence  in  particular 
by  the  high  and  complete  character  of  your  virtues,  by  your  zeal  for 
souls,  and  by  the  influence  of  your  presence  in  the  midst  of  us,  I  wish 
to  convey  to  you  the  expression  of  my  affection,  veneration,  and  grati- 
tude, by  the  dedication  of  this  book  to  your  name.  It  is  the  last  work 
of  any  importance  that  I  shall  ever  write,  and  I  can  only  wish  that  it 
were  more  worthy  of  your  patronage.  I  am  ever,  my  dear  Lord 
Cardinal,  your  devoted  and  affectionate  servant  in  Christ,  *  William 
Bernard  Ullathorne,  Bishop  of  Birmingham." 

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Google 


662  Notes  on  New  Books. 

We  may  conjecture  that  these  lectures  have  been  addressed  to  many 
religious  communities ;  and  now,  as  finally  revised  by  their  author, 
they  will  long  continue  their  holy  work  in  enlightening  and  enoourag- 
ing  chosen  souls.  The  announcement  of  a  forthcoming  book  shows 
that  the  author  of  Christian  Patience  has  been  honoured  by  being 
associated  with  the  two  living  English  Cardinals,  in  so  far  that  a 
volume  of  "  Characteristics  "  has  been  selected  from  his  writings,  as 
was  done  before  to  Cardinal  Newman  and  then  to  Cardinal  Manning. 

3.  u  St.  Columba,  and  Other  Poems  "  by  the  Rev.  J.  Golden  (Burns 
and  Oates),  is  a  novelty  in  its  imitation  of  the  French  system  of  paper 
covers.  Its  hundred  and  fifty  pages  are  divided  among  three  long 
poems,  without  a  single  specimen  of  the  short  miscellaneous  verses 
which  generally  come  in  at  the  end.  Father  G-olden's  subjects  are  all 
Irish,  and  he  shows  patriotic  and  poetic  feeling ;  but  we  fear  his  friend 
ought  to  have  accepted  his  plea  of  "lack  of  fire  and  skill."  St. 
Columba's  story  is  told  in  correct  heroic  couplets,  but  it  would 
be  more  impressive  in  such  prose  as  the  Introduction.  The  poem 
which  is  placed  last  deserves  its  position.  A  Saturday  Reviewer 
would  probably  cite  the  second  quatrain  in  page  139  as  a  fair 
sample;  but  this  would  be  unjust.  In  medio  stat  virtue,  and  the 
most  meritorious  of  these  performances  is  placed  iu  the  middle.  A 
rather  favourable  verdict  is  quoted  from  this  Magazine  of  the  date  of 
October,  1883 ;  but  we  implied  that  the  easy  music  of  the  Hiawatha 
metre  was  very  frequently  broken.  The  author  professes  to  have 
improved  on  this  point  in  his  second  edition ;  but  how  has  his  ear 
tolerated  the  first  two  lines  of  the  second  paragraph  P  Similar  hitches 
occur  in  every  page.  We  wish  that  the  substance  of  the  poem  were 
more  worthy  of  the  Irish  and  Catholic  spirit  that  animates  it. 

4.  The  Catholic  Truth  Society  (London,  18  West-square,  S.E.)  is 
showing  great  zeal  and  activity  in  the  publication  of  Catholic  books, 
tracts,  and  leaflets.  No.  1  of  its  Penny  Library  of  Catholic  Tales, 
contains  three  little  stories  by  Lady  Herbert,  Miss  Rosa  Mulholland, 
and  another;  and  No.  1  of  the  Penny  Library  of  Poems,  contains 
eighteen  pieces,  some  of  them  very  beautiful,  by  Longfellow,  Leigh 
Hunt,  Mary  Howitt,  Whittier,  Rosa  Mulholland,  Katharine  Tynan, 
and  others.  The  same  Society  has  issued  penny  editions  of  Canon 
Croft's  "  Continuity  of  the  English  Church  "  and  Cardinal  Manning's 
beautiful  discourse  *'  The  Blessed  Sacrament  the  Centre  of  Immutable 
Truth.99  For  two  pence  we  have  a  revised  edition  of  Father  Breen's 
historical  sketch  "  The  Church  of  Old  England/' 

5.  Moore  received  four  thousand  pounds  for  "  Lalla  Rookh  "  which 
is  now  to  be  had  for  three  pence  in  The  CConnell  Press  Popular  Library 
without  the  dainty  prose  setting  in  which  the  four  metrical  tales  are 
enshrined. 

6.  If  not  this  month,  certainly  next  month,  the  attention  of  our 

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Note*  on  New  Books.  563 

readers  will  be  called  to  Sir  Charles  Gavan  Duffy**  new  volume,  "  The 
League  of  the  North  and  South1*  (London:  Chapman  and  Hall). 
The  author  states  that  this  will  be  his  last  contribution  to  the  history 
of  his  time.  We  trust  that  he  will  next  employ  some  of  his  well- 
earned  leisure  in  giving  us  a  selection  of  his  literary  papers,  and  a 
collection  (not  a  selection)  of  his  ballads  and  verses,  towards  which 
his  absorption  in  active  politics  has  made  the  author  himself  unjust. 
u  The  Muster  of  the  North,"  "  A  Lay  Sermon,"  "  Sweet  Sibyl,"  "  The 
Irish  Chieftains/'  "  Innishowen,"  "  The  Voice  of  Labour  "—these  and 
many  others  come  up  at  once  before  the  memory,  all  worthy  of  the 
reputation  even  of  the  founder  of  The  Nation. 

7.  "Catholic  Hymns  with  Accompanying  Tunes"  (Burns  and 
Oates),  is  a  musical  edition  of  St  Dominic's  Hymn-book.  The  editor 
is  Mr.  A.  £.  Tozer,  and  he  has  received  assistance  from  no  less  than 
seventeen  living  composers.  Convents  and  choirs  will  no  doubt  hasten 
to  add  to  their  musical  repertory  this  two  shilling  collection  of  eighty 
pieces,  new  and  old.  The  words  are  in  all  cases  printed  separately  on 
the  lower  portion  of  each  page.  Do  experts  prefer  this  arrangement  ? 
An  outsider  would  rather  see  the  syllables  of  the  first  stanza  grouped 
each  under  its  note. 

8.  "To-day's  Gem  for  the  Casket  of  Mary"  (Dublin:  M.  H.  Gill 
and  Son),  is  an  extremely  neat  little  volume,  giving  a  motto  and  a 
resolution  for  every  day  in  the  year.  We  should  have  preferred  some- 
thing else  in  the  last  pages — for  instance,  an  index  of  the  authors 
quoted — in  place  of  the  Little  Office  of  the  Immaculate  Conception ; 
but  this  addition  will  be  a  great  convenience  for  members  of  the 
Blessed  Virgin's  Sodality,  for  whom  the  book  is  specially  intended. 
It  is  destined,  please  God,  to  inspire  many  a  good  thought  in  many  a 
heart. 

9.  We  congratulate  two  Catholic  Magazines,  one  on  each  side  of 
the  Atlantic,  on  the  two  new  contributors  they  have  enlisted  respec- 
tively— the  American  magazine  securing  an  Irishwoman,  and  the 
English  magazine  an  American.  The  Catholic  World,  the  largest  and 
most  varied  Catholic  periodical  in  the  world,  gives  in  September  the 
opening  chapters  of  "  A  Fair  Emigrant,"  a  new  serial  by  Miss  Rosa 
Mulholland ;  and  Merry  England  is  enriched  by  an  exquisitely  written 
sketch  called  "John"  by  Miss  Mary  Agnes  Thicker,  author  of  the 
excellent  novels,  "The  House  of  Yorke,"  "  Grapes  and  Thorns,"  and 
"  Six  Sunny  Months." 


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OHRISTUS  CONSOLATOR. 

FROM  ev'ry  nation  and  from  ev'ry  clime 
Wearied  yet  eager  hearts  are  raised  to  Thee, 
And  never  to  the  utmost  bounds  of  time 
Shall  one  poor  soul's  appeal  neglected  be ! 

Dear  Heart,  Thou  never  canst  misjudge  our  deeds, 
But  ever  readest  all  our  thoughts  aright, 

Art  quick  to  succour  us  in  all  our  needs, 
And  never  dost  Thy  lowliest  lover  slight. 

Oh  Love !  Thy  tender  pity  understands 
The  source  and  measure  of  each  secret  smart, 

Thou  knowest  with  thine  own  deep-wounded  Hands 
To  soothe  the  anguish  of  a  wounded  heart 

Faithful  Rewarder !  Thy  just  hand  bestows 
Alike  to  good  attempted,  and  good  done 

The  promised  crown,  because  Thy  wisdom  knows 
Success  or  failure  is  from  Thee  alone. 

Ocean  of  mercy,  in  Thy  depths  we  trust 

The  awful  secret  of  our  final  end  ; 
Thou  art  the  Framer  of  this  sinful  dust 

And,  though  our  Judge,  art  yet  our  truest  Friend. 

Christ  our  Consoler,  patient,  sweet,  and  mild, 
How  often  do  we  prove  the  promise  true  ; 

"  As  tender  mother  comforteth  her  child 
So,  oh  my  people,  will  I  comfort  you ! " 

Siotbr  Mary  Agnes. 


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LEAVES  FROM  THE  ANNA1&  OP  DUBLIN. 
By  W.  F.  Dbnnehy. 

DUBLIN  is  a  city  of  the  past  as  well  as  of  the  future,  and  one 
before  which  infinite  possibilities  lie.  Her  present  may  be 
given  to  a  great  extent  to  the  recalling  of  olden  glories  and  to  the 
anticipation  of  a  new  prosperity  which  infallibly  must  be  hers ; 
but  by  virtue  of  her  place  as  the  capital  of  Ireland,  by  her 
geographical  position,  which  makes  her  queen  of  a  bay  in  which 
the  navies  of  Europe  might  float  in  safety,  and  by  reason,  be  it 
said,  too,  of  the  public  spirit  and  zeal  of  her  citizens,  Dublin  has 
every  reason  to  hope  for  the  eventual  securing  of  a  prosperity 
equal  to  that  of  any  rival.  She  possesses  every  advantage  whicfc, 
supposing  Ireland  to  be  a  newly- found  country,  the  pioneers  who 
sought  to  lay  the  foundations  of  a  great  city  would'  endeavour  to 
find,  in  order  to  justify  their  action ;  and,  if  her  present  condition 
is  not  all  that  her  citizens  might  reasonably  desire,  there  is  much 
in  the  history  of  her  past  which  forbids  them  to  despair  of  her 
future. 

Volumes  might  be  compiled  as  to  the  ancient  history  of  Dublin, 
and  the  numerous  legends  which  hardly  lighten  the  haze  which 
surrounds  its  earjy  origin*  Strabo,  who  wrote  in  the  reign  of 
Augustus  Caesar,  mentions  Ireland,  but  says  nothing  about  Dublin. 
However,  everyone  knows  that  about  a.  d.  140  Ptolemy  refers  to 
that  city  under  the  name  of  Eblana,  and  an  ingenious  gentleman,  a 
Mr.  Baxter,  a  citizen  of  antiquarian  parts,  early  in  the  last  century, 
suggested  that  this  was  probably  an  abbreviation  of  the  name 
Deblana,  from  which  Dublin  was  gradually  evolved.  So,  at  least, 
records  Dr.  Walter  Harris,  whose  "  History  and  Antiquities  of 
the  City  of  Dublin  from  the  earliest  accounts:  compiled  from 
Authentick  Memoirs,  Offices  of  Record,  Manuscript  Collections, 
and  other  unexceptionable  Vouchers,"  was  published  after  his 
death  in  1766.  Jocelyn,  in  his  "  Life  of  St.  Patrick,"  ascribes 
to  the  Apostle  of  Ireland  a  prophecy  uttered  with  reference  to 
Dublin,  to  wit,  "  that  small  village  shall  hereafter  be  an  eminent 
city ;  it  shall  increase  in  riches  and  dignities,  until  at  length  it 
shall  be  lifted  up  into  the  throne  of  the  kingdom."  Be  this  as  it 
may  be,  it  is  sufficient  to  take  it  as  settled  that,  while  Dublin  had 
held  the  rank  of  a  city  of  at  least  growing  importance  for  a  full 
eleven  hundred  years  before  Strongbow  and  his  companions  landed 

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566  Leave*  from  the  Annate  of  Dublin. 

in  Ireland,  it  is  also  certain  that  only  from  the  period  when  Henry 
the  Second  granted  a  charter  to  its  citizens  does  it  become  possible 
to  clearly  trace  its  distinct  municipal  history.  Dublin  became  the 
capital  of  the  Pale,  as  the  portion  of  Ireland  under  the  dominion 
of  the  Normans  was  called,  and  became  an  Anglo-Norman  city. 
The  Normans,  as  usual,  brought  the  memory  of,  and  devotion  to 
their  own  saints  with  them,  and  the  name  of  more  than  one 
church  in  Dublin  to  this  day  attests  the  fact  of  their  conquest  of 
the  city. 

In  1190  a  great  portion  of  Dublin  was  destroyed  by  fire,  and 
in  1204  some  species  of  plague  nearly  depopulated  the  city  and 
surrounding  country.  In  1205  Meyler  Fitz-Henry,  Lord  Justice 
of  Ireland,  complaining  to  King  John  that  he  had  no  place  of 
sufficient  security  for  the  keeping  of  State  treasure,  and,  further- 
more, declaring  his  opinion  that  it  was  essential  that  Dublin  should 
be  fortified,  and  his  Majesty,  with  characteristic  economy,  issued 
a  writ  commanding  his  viceroy  to  erect  a  castle,  and  the  citizens 
to  duly  fortify  their  town.  For  the  provision  of  funds  for  these 
matters,  he  handed  over  to  the  worthy  Fitz-Henry  a  debt  due  to 
him  by  one  Jeffrey  Fitz-Robert,  of  three  hundred  marks,  and  he 
desired  the  burgesses  to  find  the  means  for  the  safekeeping  of 
their  city.  Whether  the  debt  due  by  Fitz-Robert  proved  to  be 
bad  or  not,  no  record  tells  us ;  but  it  seems  certain  that  the  con- 
struction of  the  oelebrated  "Dublin  .Castle"  was  the  work  of 
Henry  de  Loundres,  who  was  Lord  Justice  in  12l3. 

In  a.  d.  1215  His  Majesty  of  England  was  graciously  pleased 
to  grant  permission  to  the  citizens  of  Dublin  to  erect  a  bridge  over 
the  Liffey  wherever  they  pleased. 

In  the  year  1266  a  violent  earthquake  was  felt  in  the  city, 
which,  as  Dr.  Walter  Harris  remarks,  "  being  a  thing  very  un- 
common, struck  more  terror  into  the  people  than  it  did  them 
mischief." 

In  1282  the  High  Street  was  burned,  and  in  the  following 
year,  as  Harris  quaintly  tells  us,  "  on  the  second  of  January  the 
greatest  part  of  the  City  of  Dublin  was  burned  down  by  an 
accidental  fire,  whioh  did  not  spare  the  steeple,  chapter-house, 
dormitory,  and  cloisters  of  Christ's  Church:  but  such  was  the 
devotion  of  the  citizens,  that  they  first  set  about  a  collection 
for  the  repair  of  the  church,  before  they  thought  of  re-edifying 
their  own  houses.'* 

Curiously  enough,  within  the  present  year,  the  remains  of  the 
cloister  and  chapter-house  referred  to  in  this  extract,  have  been 

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Leaves  from  the  Annals  qf  Dublin.  567 

disinterred  from  the  weight  of  debris  which  centuries  had  thrown 
over  them,  and  have  been  revealed  to  the  citizens,  with  many 
evidences  of  the  patient  piety  with  which  holy  monks,  six  hundred 
years  ago,  laboured  for  the  honour  of  God. 

Fires  were  frequent  about  this  time  in  Dublin.  In  1301,  and 
again  in  1304,  large  portions  of  the  city  were  destroyed.  Later 
on,  in  1308,  Dublin  had  a  wealthy  and  liberal  mayor,  of  whom  we 
may,  perhaps,  be  allowed  to  quote  Harris's  description  : — 

"  John  Decer,  Mayor  of  Dublin,  at  his  own  charge,  made  a 
marble  cistern  in  the  publick  street,  to  receive  water  from  the 
conduit  in  Dublin  for  the  benefit  of  the  inhabitants,  such  as  was 
never  before  seen  there.  He  also  a  little  before  built  a  bridge 
over  the  Lifiey,  near  the  Priory  of  St.  Wolstan,  and  a  chapel, 
dedicated  to  the  Blessed  Virgin  Mary,  in  the  Franciscan  monastery, 
wherein  he  was  afterwards  buried  himself :  he  also  erected  another 
chapel  to  the  Blessed  Virgin  Mary  in  St.  John's  Hospital.  His 
bounty  to  the  Dominicans  is  also  celebrated,  for  he  erected  a  large 
and  elegant  stone  pillar  in  their  church,  and  presented  to  the 
friars  a  large  stone  altar,  with  all  the  appurtenant  ornaments,  and 
entertained  them  at  his  own  table  every  Friday  out  of  charity.  It 
is  also  recorded  in  the  Registry  of  the  Dominicans  of  Dublin  that 
this  generous  magistrate,  in  a  time  of  great  scarcity,  raised  a  vast 
sum  of  money,  and  furnished  out  three  ships  to  France,  which 
returned  in  two  months  laden  with  corn,  and  that  he  bestowed  one 
of  the  ships9  loading  on  the  Lord  Justice  and  militia,  and  another 
on  the  Augustinian  and  Dominican  seminaries,  and  reserved  a  third 
for  the  exercise  of  his  own  hospitality  and  bounty.  At  the  same 
time  the  Prior  of  Christ  Church,  being  destitute  of  corn,  and 
having  no  money  to  buy  it,  sent  to  this  worthy  mayor  a  pledge  of 
plate  to  the  value  of  forty  pounds,  but  he  returned  the  plate, 
and  sent  the  prior  a  present  of  twenty  barrels  of  corn.  These 
beneficent  actions  moved  the  Dominicans  to  insert  the  following 
prayer  in  their  litany,  viz.: — '  Orate  pro  salute  major  is,  balivorum, 
et  communitatis  de  omni  civitate  Dubliniensi,  optimorum  benefac  - 
torum  huic  ordini  tuo,  nunc  et  in  hor&  mortis.' " 

Surely  the  following,  again  from  Harris,  is  worth  preserving : — 

"  a.  d.  1310.  The  bakers  of  Dublin  were  drawn  on  hurdles  at 
horses'  tails  through  the  streets,  as  a  punishment  for  using  falsa 
weights  and  other  evil  practices.  This  happened  in  a  year  of  great 
scarcity,  when  a  cronoge  of  wheat  sold  for  twenty  shillings  and 
upwards." 

In  November,  1316,  a  great  tempest  broke  over  Dublin,  doing 

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568  Leaves  from  the  Annals  qf  Dublin. 

much  damage  by  sea  and  land,  and  demolishing  the  steeple  of 
Christ  Church  Cathedral.  During  the  same  year  the  following 
events,  thus  preserved  by  Harris,  took  place : — 

"Information  being  given  that  Richard,  Earl  of  Ulster, 
surnamed  Bourgh  or  de  Burgo,  was  instrumental  in  bringing 
Bruce  and  his  Scots  into  Ireland,  Robert  de  Nottingham,  then 
Mayor  of  Dublin,*  and  a  strong  band  of  the  commons  (i.e.,  general 
body  of  oitizens)  marched  to  St.  Mary's  Abbey,  where  the  earl  lay 
in  a  state  of  quietness,  notwithstanding  Bruce  was  encamped  at 
Castleknock,  and  arrested  and  imprisoned  him  in  the  Castle  of 
Dublin.  He  made  resistance,  and  seven  of  his  men  were  slain  in 
the  fray,  and  the  abbey  spoiled,  upon  suspicion  that  the  monks 
favoured  the  enemy.  The  earl  lay  a  considerable  time  in  confine- 
ment; and  though  the  Lord  Justice  and  several  of  the  king's 
council  sent  a  mandate  to  the  mayor  to  discharge  him  upon  bail, 
yet  the  mayor  disobeyed  the  orders,  and  he  was  kept  in  close 
custody  until  Whitsuntide,  1317,  when  the  Lord  Justice  repaired 
to  Dublin,  and  assembled  a  parliament  at  Kilmainham,  by 
which  he  was  set  at  liberty,  having  first  taken  an  oath  on  the 
Sacrament  that  he  would  neither  by  himself,  his  friends  or  followers, 
offer  any  mischief  to  the  citizens  for  his  imprisonment." 

From  this  extract  it  is  possible  to  gather  two  facts  of  some 
importance,  first,  that  the  Mayor  and  citizens  of  Dublin  recog- 
nised no  superiority  or  power  of  control  on  the  part  of  the  Viceroy 
over  them  ;  and  that,  secondly,  they  did  admit  the  higher  control- 
ling power  of  an  Irish  Parliament.  Both  of  which  points  are  of 
moment  as  illustrating  the  traditional  power  and  inherited  rights 
which  the  Lord  Mayor  of  Dublin  still  exercises  and  enjoys. 

In  1327,  one  Adam  Duffe  OToole  was  convicted  of  disgusting 
and  idiotic  blasphemy,  and,  according  to  the  spirit  of  the  time, 
burned  to  death  on  Hoggin,  the  present  College-green,  while  four 
years  later,  in  1331,  the  following  marvel  is  related : — 

"  A  great  famine  afflicted  all  Ireland  in  this  and  the  foregoing 
year,  and  the  city  of  Dublin  suffered  miserably.  But  the  people 
in  their  distress  met  with  an  unexpected  and  providential  relief. 
For  about  the  24th  of  June,  a  prodigious  number  of  large  sea 
fish,  called  Turlehydes,  were  brought  into  the  Bay  of  Dublin,  ?nd 
cast  on  shore  at  the  mouth  of  the  river  Dodder.  They  were  from 
thirty  to  forty  feet  long,  and  so  bulky  that  two  tall  men  placed  on 
each  side  of  the  fish  could  not  see  one  another.     The  Lord  Justice, 

*  Robert  de  Nottingham  was  seven  times  Mayor  of  Dublin. 

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Leaves  rotn  the  Annals  of  Dublin.  569 

with,  many  of  his  servants,  and  many  of  the  citizens  of  Dublin, 
killed  above  two  hundred  of  them  and  gave  leave  to  the  poor  to 
carry  them  away  at  their  pleasure." 

In  1332  we  have  it  duly  recorded,  and  the  wording  of  the 
entry  is  instructive,  as  showing  the  light  in  which  the  then  citizens 
of  Dublin  regarded  the  people  in  whose  midst  they  lived : — "  Sir 
Anthony  Lucy  marched  out  of  Dublin,  into  the  County  of  Wicklow, 
attended  by  a  strong  band  of  citizens,  and  took  the  Castle 
of  Arklow  from  the  Irish,  and  repaired  the  same,  and  left 
a  good  garrison  in  it." 

Six  years  later,  in  1338,  weather  of  almost  unparalleled 
severity  was  experienced  in  Ireland.  The  frost  was  of  such 
intensity  that  the  Liffey  was  frozen  over,  and  running  matches, 
football  competitions,  and  dances  took  place  on  the  icy  surface 
which  was  so  thick  that  fires  were  safely  lighted  upon  it.  A  pro- 
digious quantity  of  snow  fell  about  the  same  time,  but  Harris 
notes  that  "  we  do  not  find  that  it  was  followed  by  any  scarcity/' 

In  1343,  St.  Thomas-street  was  nearly  destroyed  by  fire,  and 
five  years  had  only  elapsed  when  a  terrible  visitation  came  upon 
Dublin  and  Ireland,  thus  recorded  by  John  Glyn,  a  Franciscan 
Friar  of  Kilkenny,  whose  Account  Harris  translates  as  follows : — 
"  This  year,  and  chiefly  in  the  months  of  September  and  October, 
great  numbers  of  bishops  and  prelates,  ecclesiastical  and  religious, 
peers  and  others,  and  in  general,  people  of  both  sexes,  flocked 
together  by  troops  in  pilgrimage  to  the  water  of  Tachmoling, 
insomuch  that  many  thousands  of  souls  might  be  seen  there 
together  for  many  days.  Some  came  on  the  score  of  devotion, 
but  the  greatest  part  for  fear  of  the  pestilence  which  raged  at  that 
time  with  great  violence.  It  first  broke  out  near  Dublin,  at  Howth 
and  Dalkey,  it  almost  destroyed  and  laid  waste  the  cities  of  Dublin 
and  Drogheda ;  insomuch,  that  in  Dublin  alone,  from  the  beginning 
of  August  to  Christmas,  fourteen  thousand  people  perished.  This 
pestilence  had  its  first  beginning,  it  is  said,  in  the  east,  and  passing 
through  the  Saracens  and  Infidels,  slew  eight  thousand  legions  of 
them :  it  seized  the  city  of  Avignon,  where  the  Roman  Court  then 
was :  the  January  before  it  came  among  us,  where  the  churches 
and  cemeteries  were  not  sufficient  to  receive  the  dead ;  and  the 
Pope  ordered  a  new  cemetery  to  be  consecrated  for  depositing  the 
bodies  of  those  who  died  of  the  pestilence ;  insomuch,  that  from 
the  month  of  May  to  the  translation  of  St.  Thomas,  fifty  thousand 
bodies  and  upwards  were  buried  in  the  same  cemetery.  This  dis- 
temper prevailed  in  full  force  in  Lent ;  for,  on  the  sixth  day  of 

Digitized  by  VjOOQ  IC 


670  Leaves  from  the  Annals  of  Dublin. 

March,  eight  Dominican  Friars  died.  Scarce  a  single  person  died 
in  one  house ;  but  it  commonly  swept  away  husband,  wife,  children, 
and  servants  all  together." 

In  1361,  and  again  in  1370  and  1383  the  plague  visited  Dublin 
anew,  sweeping  away  many  thousands  of  the  citizens.  In  1407 
we  read  that : — "In  consequence  of  the  several  great  services  done  to 
the  Crown  of  England,  at  divers  times,  by  the  citizens  of  Dublin, 
King  Henry  the  Fourth,  on  the  fifth  of  March  this  year,  granted  a 
license  that  the  mayor  for  the  time  being  and  his  successors  for 
ever  should  bear  before  them  a  gilded  sword,  for  the  honour  of 
the  Xing  and  his  heirs,  and  of  his  faithful  subjects  of  the  said 
city  in  the  same  manner  as  the  mayors  of  London  had  borne 
before  them." 

In  1447  both  plague  and  famine  visited  the  kingdom,  so  that 
"vast  multitudes"  died  in  both  Dublin  and  the  surrounding 
districts,  while  in  1452  a  remarkable  phenomenon  Occurred,  the 
"  river  Liffey  being  entirely  dry  for  the  space  of  two  minutes." 
Yet  again,  we  have  it  recorded  that,  in  1461 : — 

"A  great  tempest  threw  down  the  large  east  window  of 
Christ  Church,  and  the  stones  of  it  broke  to  pieces  many  chests  and 
coffins,  in  which  the  jewels,  reliques,  Ornaments,  and  vestments  of 
the  altars,  as  also  the  deeds,  writings  and  muniments  of  the 
church  were  deposited,  and  the  damages  done  upon  this  accident 
to  the  prior  and  convent  were  very  great.  Many  foundation 
charters  of  the  church  were  so  lacerated  and  destroyed  that  they 
were  scaice  left  legible  for  the  impressions  of  the  seals  to  be  dis- 
cerned; and  particularly  a  foundation  charter  of  Henry  Fitz- 
Empress,  which  by  no  means  could  be  read :  the  prior  and  convent, 
by  the  advice  of  lawyers  went  to  the  barons  of  the  exchequer, 
and  moved  them  to  inroll  such  of  their  deeds  as  could  be  distinctly 
read,  which  was  done  accordingly." 

Harris  goes  on  sneeringly  to  say : — "  The  compilers  of  the 
Black  Book  of  Christ  Church,  Dublin  (from  whence  this  account 
is  taken)  add  a  ^miracle  upon  the  occasion.  For  they  say, 
that  the  chest  in  which  the  staff  of  Jesus  and  other  reliques  lay, 
was  entirely  broken  to  pieces,  and  that  the  staff  was  found  lying 
without  the  least  damage  on  the  top  of  the  rubbish,  but  that  the 
other  reliques  were  entirely  buried  under  it." 

The  "  staff  of  Jesus"  which  was  undoubtedly,  by  virtue  of 
long  continued  tradition,  the  pastoral  crozier  of  St.  Patrick,  was 
burned  by  order  of  Dr.  Brown,  the  first  English  Bishop  of 
Dublin,  after  the  doctrines  of  Luther  had  borne  fruit  in  the  land 

Digitized  by  G00gle 


Leaves  from  the  Annah  of  Dublin.  571 

of  Albion,  During  the  fifteenth  century  the  plague  seems  to  have 
visited  Dublin  repeatedly,  for  in  1477  we  have  another  visitation 
recorded,  with  yet  another  in  1484. 

Harris  tells  us,  that  in  1486 : — 

"  Lambert  Simnel,  an  impostor,  was  crowned  king  in  Christ 
Church.'1 

He  either  forgot  or  omitted  to  mention  that  the  crown  used 
upon  this  occasion  was  one  taken  from  the  statue  of  the  Blessed 
Virgin,  then  venerated  in  the  Church  of  St.  Mary  del  Dam,  which 
stood  by  the  dam  of  the  Poddle  river  as  it  flowed  beneath  the 
present  Cork-hill,  and  after  which  the  Dame-street,  so  well-known 
in  later  days,  has  been  called.  We  have,  however,  the  story  of 
the  treason  of  the  English  settlers  within  the  Pale,  with  their 
consequent  atonement,  thus  recorded: — "a.d.  1487,  Jenico 
Marks,  Mayor  of  Dublin,  and  the  citizens,  made  a  submission  and 
apology  to  the  king  for  their  misbehaviour  in  the  affair  of  Lambert 
Simnel,  in  these  words — '  We  were  daunted  to  see  not  only  your 
chief  governor,  whom  your  highness  made  ruler  over  us,  to  bend 
or  bow  to  that  idol,  whom  they  made  us  obey,  but  also  our  father 
of  Dublin  and  most  of  the  clergy  of  the  nation,  except  the 
reverend  father,  his  grace  Octavian,  archbishop  of  Armagh.  We 
therefore  humbly  crave  your  highness's  clemency  towards  your 
poor  subjects  of  Dublin,  the  metropolis  of  your  highness's  realm 
of  Ireland,  which  we  hope  your  gracious  highness  will  remit  with 
some  sparks  of  favour  towards  us.  Your  highness's  loving  and 
faithful  subjects  of  Dublin, 

*  Jenico  Marks,  Mayor, 

'  John   Sergeant,  John  West,  Thomas  Mulighan,  John 

*  Fian,  Aldermen/  " 

It  is  a  curious  fact  that  on  the  roll  of  the  Aldermen  of  Dublin 
in  the  present  year  of  grace,  as  for  many  a  one  before,  stands 
high  the  name  of  another  Alderman  Mulligan. 

In  a.d.  i486,  we  are  told  that :  "  This  year  the  first  musquets 
or  fire-arms  that  were  ever  seen  in  Ireland,  were  brought  to 
Dublin  from  Germany,  and  six  of  them,  as  a  great  rarity,  were 
presented  to  Gerald,  earl  of  Kildare,  and  lord  deputy,  which 
he  put  into  the  hands  of  his  guards,  as  they  stood  sentinels  before 
his  house  in  Thomas-court." 

Was  it  fate  that  brought  about  the  death  of  the  bravest  and 
best  of  the  Geraldines,  more  than  three  hundred  years  later,  and 
not  a  stone's  throw  from  the  spot  where  the  retainers  of  Gerald  of 
Kildare  once  stood  to  arms  ? 

Digitized  by  VjOOQLC 


572  Leaves  from  the  Annals  of  Dublin. 

In  1525,  and  in  1628,  Dublin  was  again  visited  by  the  plague; 
during  the  last  visitation,  the  Archbishop,  who  was  also  Lord 
Chancellor,  died,  as  also  several  other  eminent  citizens.  Passing 
over  the  rebellion  of  Silken  Thomas,  to  which  We  shall  probably 
recur  hereafter,  and  merely  adverting  to  the  fact  that  another 
shock  of  earthquake  was  felt  in  Dublin  in  1534,  wis  find  in 
Harris's  Annals  the  following  entry: — "a.d.,  1535,  George 
Brown,  an  Augustin  Friar,  was  consecrated  Archbishop  of  Dublin, 
and  was  the  first  of  the  clergy  who  embraced  the  Reformation 
in  Ireland,  having  renounced  the  papal  supremacy,  and  acknow- 
ledged the  same  in  the  king,  pursuant  to  an  act  of  parliament 
passed  the  year  following.  He  also  removed  all  superstitious 
reliques  and  images  out  of  the  two  cathedrals  in  Dublin,  and 
other  churches  in  his  dioceses,  and  in  their  room  placed  the  creed, 
the  Lord's  prayer,  and  ten  commandments  in  gilded  frames." 

The  Act  of  Parliament  referred  to  in  this  extract,  was  one  of 
the  English  Parliament.  No  genuine  Irish  Parliament  ever 
acknowledged  the  supremacy  of  the  king  in  matters  of  religion, 
faith,  or  conscience. 

In  1550,  the  new  Protestant  Liturgy  was  first  read,  on  the 
Easter  Sunday  of  that  year,  in  the  Dublin  churches. 

With  the  passing  away  of  Henry  the  Eighth  to  his  reward, 
and  during  the  brief  reign  of  Edward,  as  well  as  throughout  the 
course  of  the  reign  of  Queen  Mary,  the  "  reformed "  faith 
languished  in  Ireland  as  we  have  before  noted,  but  this  state  of 
things  was  again  all  altered  when,  in  1559  : — "  The  Mass  was  put 
down  in  Dublin  by  orders  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  and  the  litany  and 
other  prayers  were  sung  in  English  in  Christ-church,  before  the 
Earl  of  Sussex,  lord  lieutenant,  who  from  thence  invited  the 
mayor  and  aldermen  to  dine  with  him  at  St.  Sepulchre's.  Orders 
were  sent  to  Thomas  Lockwood,  dean  of  Christ-church,  to  remove 
all  popish  reliques  and  images  from  thence,  and  to  paint  and 
whiten  it  anew,  putting  sentences  of  scripture  on  the  walls  instead 
of  pictures  and  other  objects  of  idolatry,  and  this  work  was  set 
about  on  the  twenty-fifth  of  May  this  year.  Large  letters  printed 
in  the  English  language  were  placed  in  the  middle  of  the  choirs  of 
St.  Patrick  and  St.  Thomas'  Church,  which  caused  great  resort 
to  these  churches." 

"  Great  resort  to  these  churches !"  Later  on  we  shall  see  how 
the  citizens  of  Dublin  did  actually  regard  these  temples,  but  for 
the  present  we  must  rest  satisfied  with  this  first  bundle  of  leaves 
from  the  annals  of  our  city. 

Digitized  by  VjOOQLC 


(    573    ) 


MARIGOLD. 

A    ROMANCE   IN   AN   OLD   GARDEN.  j 

In  Poue  Ohaptees. 
by  rosa  mulholland, 

AUTHOR  OF  "  TAOEAKT  YBUM,"  "  KILLKBYY,"  "  KJLRCW.LA  GRACE,"  BTC,  BTC. 

Chapter  III. 

When  Marigold  put  her  basket  on  her  head  the  next  morning,  and 
took  her  way  towards  Ballyspinnen,  the  world  had  anew  aspect  for 
.  her.  The  sunshine  filtered  down  as  usual  through  dingy  haze,  and 
shed  a  wistful  glory  over  the  busy  town ;  the  sullying  smoke  from 
tall  chimneys  floated  upwards,  and  tarnished  the  delicate  lustre  cf 
silvery-golden  clouds ;  and,  as  usual,  the  one,  strange  to  see,  did 
not  hurt,  but  rather  intensified,  the  beauty  of  the  other.  This 
morning  the  lowering  smoke  looked  to  Marigold  more  thoroughly 
than  ever  interpenetrated  with  light,  and  the  glory  above  the 
horizon  blazed  upon  her  with  a  more  solemn  and  tender  expression] 
A  spiritual  ray  shone  in  her  own  eyes,  as  they  met  and  received 
the  brightness ;  for  her  life  had  passed  into  a  phase  that  was  per- 
fectly new,  and  the  spirit  of  fortitude  was  upon  her.  TJlick  was 
gone — it  might  be  for  ever ;  the  probabilities  of  life  would  do 
much  to  keep  them  apart — yet  she  would  suffer  and  be  patient, 
that  it  might  be  well  with  him  among  the  shadows  of  that 
impenetrable  distance  which  shut  him  out  from  her  sight.  She 
had  now  no  interest  in  the  town  whither  she  directed  her  steps ; 
no  one  dwelt  there  especially  loving  or  beloved.  It  was  a  lonely 
place,  with  clouds  of  trouble  struggling  ever  into  the  light ;  and 
towards  the  benignity  of  that  overhanging  light  her  own  chastened 
thoughts  were  attracted.  She  did  her  work  in  the  town  with  her 
usual  care  and  success;  her  fingers,  which  seemed  made  for  weav- 
ing garlands,  and  creating  beauty  in  their  touoh,  left  glowing 
tracks  of  colour  behind  them  as  she  passed  from  house  to  house. 
A  favourite  among  the  ladies  who  knew  her,  if  not  among  the 
Lizzies  of  her  acquaintance,  she  drew  the  sympathies  of  gentle- 
women towards  her  by  the  simplicity  and  refinement  of  her  nature, 
the  picturesqueness  of  her  appearance  and  calling,  no  less  than  by 
V0L.xrf.No.161.    Member,  1886.  J&T 


574  Marigold. 

the  interest  which  attached  to  her  history.  On  this  particular 
morning  she  had  to  wait  upon  the  wife  of  Ulick's  employer,  a 
motherly  woman,  with  grown-up  daughters  of  her  own,  who  had 
known  of  Marigold's  intended  marriage,  though,  she  had  never  yet 
spoken  to  her  on  the  subject.  When  this  good  lady  saw  the  flower- 
girl's  golden  head  coming  in  between  the  cactus  flowers  at  her 
conservatory  door,  she  felt  troubled  at  heart,  having  heard  from 
her  husband  of  Ulick's  sudden  departure  from  the  country. 

"  I  hardly  expected  to  see  you  to-day,"  said  Mrs.  Flaxman, 
startled  into  forgetting  her  ordinary  reserve. 

"  "Why  P  "  asked  Marigold,  with  open  eyes  fixed  upon  her. 

"Why,"  hesitated  the  lady,  "because  you  have  lost  your 
friend." 

Marigold,  started  in  her  turn,  blushed,  and  became  pale  again. 
She  had  never  imagined  that  the  great  lady  had  known  anything 
of  her  engagement,  or  would  be  likely  to  consider  her  present 
state  of  mind. 

"  I  have  not  lost  him,"  said  Marigold,  "  except  for  a  little 
while.  He  will  come  back  again ; "  she  could  not  bring  herself  to 
add,  u  or  I  will  go  to  him." 

"  Oh ! "  said  Mrs.  Flaxman.  "I  am  glad  to  hear  that.  He 
gave  up  his  situation  Tory  suddenly,  and  did  not  say  anything 
about  returning.  I  am  sorry  that  the  situation  will  have  to  be 
filled  up ;  if  he  had  spoken  of  coming  back,  it  might  have  been 
kept  for  him.  That  he  was  highly  thought  of  in  the  office,  I 
know ;  and  Mr.  Flaxman  was  vexed  and  disappointed  at  losing 
him.    But,  of  course,  if  he  is  coming  back " 

The  lady  looked  aside  at  Marigold,  who  was  steadily  arranging 
her  pots  with  a  serene  look  on  her  face,  which  was  only  a  little 
paler  than  usual.  She  pitied  the  girl  from  her  heart,  not  believing 
in  the  least  about  "Click's  return.  Marigold  felt  the  look  and  tone, 
and  took  the  meaning  of  them  away  with  her  as  an  earnest  of 
many  others  more  difficult  to  endure,  which  would  certainly  try 
her  patience  as  the  time  went  along.  And  all  that  day  there  was 
nothing  before  her  thoughts  but  the  idea  of  the  dreary  ocean  which 
lay  between  her  and  her  love. 

"Ulick  gone!"  cried  Peter  Lally,  dropping  his  pipe,  and 
smashing  it  on  the  gravel  walk.  "  Gone  out  o'  the  country  with- 
out so  much  as  savin'  good-bye  to  an  ould  friend !  What  took 
him  to  England,  my  girl,  without  youP  What  took  him  to 
England,  where  he  has  neither  kith  nor  kin  P  " 

"  He  knows  his  own  business,  Peter  Lally,  and  I  know  mine," 

Digitized  by  vjVJOVt  Iv, 


Marigold.  575 

said  Marigold ;  "  and  mine  just  at  present  is  to  see  that  He  is  not 
wronged." 

Peter  looked  at  Her  pityingly,  and  shook  His  Head. 

"I  don't  fault  you  for  standin'  up  for  him,"  He  said;  "  an' 
Heaven  grant  it  may  turn  out  the  way  you  expect.  It's  true  we 
never  saw  anything  in  the  boy  that  wasn't  fair  an'  square." 

"  One  would  think  you  had  seen  a  great  deal  in  Him  that  was 
bad  and  dishonest,  to  speak  of  Him  now  with  such  black,  black 
doubt  in  your  face ! "  said  Marigold,  smothering  a  sob,  and  hold- 
ing her  Head  very  High.  The  opinions  of  the  world  she  could 
despise,  but  Peter's  distrust  cut  Her  to  the  Heart. 

Peter  pushed  back  His  Hat,  and  rubbed  his  grizzly  Head. 

"  Three,  four,  five  years,"  he  counted  on  His  fingers,  "  I  Have 
known  every  turn  of  Him,  an'  never  seen  a  crooked  one.  The 
temptation  of  the  world  is  before  him,  it's  true,  and  it's  Hard  to 
think  what  call  He  Had  to  get  up  on  a  sudden t,  an'  run  out  o'  the 
place  He  was  doin'  well  in.  But  still  an'  withal  the  nature's  in 
Him,  an9  you're  right  to  believe  in  Him,  an'  I'll  Help  you  at  that. 
Shake  Hands  on  it,  little  girl.  You  an'  me'U  defend  Hun  agin  the 
world!" 

Marigold  grasped  His  Horny  Hand,  and  four  eyes  were  very  dim 
ior  a  few  minutes  afterwards. 

After  that,  the  light  or  bitter  words  of  gossip  fell  as  fast  and 
thick  about  Marigold's  Head  as  the  yellow  leaves  that  drifted  down 
upon  her  from  the  fading  autumnal  trees,  while  she  came  and  went 
about  Hildebrand  Towers.  No  one  passed  Her  in  the  street,  or  on 
the  road,  without  a  word  about  "Click's  bad  conduct ;  every  one 
was  surprised  to  see  Her  bearing  it  so  welL  People  were  glad  to 
find  she  Had  so  much  spirit,  but  concluded  she  must  always  Have 
known  that  she  was  not  a  proper  wife  for  so  rising  a  young  man, 
and  that  He  must  leave  Her  to  find  His  place  in  the  world.  Others 
Had  always  Held  an  indifferent  opinion  of  him ;  though  He  Had 
fascinated  many,  they  Had  been  too  shrewd  to  be  imposed  upon, 
and  the  girl  ought  to  be  thankful  for  so  good  an  escape.  Of  these 
last  was  Poll  Hackett,  with  whom  Marigold  Had  always  been  a 
favourite,  and  who  was  wont  to  relapse,  from  time  to  time,  into 
unfavourable  opinions  of  young  men  as  a  mass. 

"  Don't  tell  me ! "  she  said,  while  Marigold  and  Peter  and  she 
-sat  on  a  felled  tree,  looking  across  the  autumn  flower-beds  into  the 
moist  purple  twilight  of  embrowned  and  blackened  thickets. 
"  Don't  ask  me  to  believe  in  the  behaviour  of  the  likes  of  Him. 
Haven't  I  been  meeting  with  young  men  ever  since  I  came  into 

Digitized  by  vjUUV  Lv, 


576  Marigold. 

the  world  P  First,  there  was  my  father ;  he  was  a  young  man,. 
I'm  sure,  at  the  time  I  was  born.  Then  there  was  my  brothers, 
side  by  side  with  me,  and  sweethearts  galore.  My  own  good  man 
was  a  caution,  I  can  tell  you ;  just  such  another  as  Ulick,  when  he 
married  me,  an'  left  me,  to  travel  the  world  for  his  amusement, 
God  knows  where,  and  may  the  heavens  forgive  him !  Even  after 
I  gave  up  the  world  an'  took  to  widow-full  ways,  haven't  I  been 
seein'  young  men  risin'  up  and  poisoning  the  air  around  me  f  No 
sooner  does  one  set  get  on  to  a  decent  steady  sort  of  age,  nor  the 
little  boys  stretches  out,  and  takes  their  place  as  bad  as  can  be." 

"  What  would  you  do  with  them,  Poll,"  asked  Peter,  « if  you 
had  your  full  swing  at  managin1  the  world  your  own  way  ?  " 

"I  don't  rightly  know,"  replied  Poll;  "though  many's  the 
time  I  thought  about  whether  the  world  couldn't  get  on  without 
them  at  all  or  not.  What's  the  good  o'  them,  anyway,  except  in 
war  time,  when  there's  some  use  in  sending  them  out  to  keep  the 
enemy  from  a  body's  door  f  They're  always  in  the  way  in  a 
house,  and  they're  never  to  be  found  when  they're  wanted.  If 
young  men  was  what  they  ought  to  be,  would  this  place  be  without 
a  master,  I'd  like  to  know?  Sons  was  born  in  die  family,  time 
out  o'  mind,  an'  where  are  they  now,  I  wonder  f  If  it  wasn't  that 
they  must  always  bein'  killed,  and  gettin'  shot  to  death  with  guns, 
or  crossin'  the  seas  without  navigation,  an'  bein'  drowned — if  it 
wasn't  for  sich  tricks,  would  you  an'  me  be  the  lord  an'  lady  of 
Hildebrand  Towers,  Peter  Lally,  I  want  to  ask  you  P  " 

Peter  rubbed  his  hands,  and  smiled  knowingly  at  Marigold,, 
saying — 

"  She  was  faultin'  them  for  being  alive  a  bit  ago,  an'  now 
she's  faultin'  them  for  bein'  dead.  It's  a  bad  graft  on  a 
bad  stock,  Poll  Hackett,  woman,  an'  it  can't  thrive !  They  be 
to  be  here,  an'  they  be  to  go,  as  the  Lord  thinks  fit.  An' 
when  we  have  them,  we'd  better  take  all  the  good  we  can  out  o' 
them,  an'  make  much  o't !  An'  don't  you  mind  her  foolish  prate,'* 
he  said  to  Marigold,  as  he  sent  her  home.  "  Give  her  three  days, 
an'  she'll  be  round,  like  the  weather-cock,  an'  singin'  his  praises  ; 
but  don't  stay  too  long  without  visitin'  her,  or  she'll  pass  the  turn 
an'  be  back  at  where  you  left  her." 

Many  days  necessarily  passed  before  a  letter  could  be  expected 
from  Ulick,  and  during  this  time  the  sympathising  glint  disappeared 
from  under  Peter's  grey  eyebrows ;  and  the  fireside  company  of 
Kate  and  the  baby  were  Marigold's  sole  consolations. 

Even  Kate's  fireside  was  hardly  a  sanctuary  to  her.     Lizzie: 

Digitized  by  VjUUV  I  v. 


Mangola.  67T 

was  a.  person  not  easily  daunted  by  difficulties ;  and  she  did  not 
fail  to  find  an  excuse  for  coming  back  to  the  cottage  to  enjoy  her 
triumph  over  Ulick's  departure. 

"I  suppose  you  thought  you  had  affronted  me  for  ever/'  said 
she  to  Kate,  finding  a  chair  for  herself,  and  making  herself  com- 
fortable at  the  fire ;  "  and  so  you  would,  only  I'm  not  a  person 
who  can  bear  to  be  on  bad  terms  with  anybody.  I'm  that  for- 
giving that  I  sometimes  say  to  myself,  'You  haven't  an  ounce  of 
proper  pride  in  you ! '  If  it  wasn't  that  humility  is  the  best  o£ 
virtues,  I  couldn't  have  any  opinion  o'  myself  at  all." 

"  I  don't  bear  spite  myself,  Lizzie,"  said  Kate ;  "  an'  Fm  glad 
enough  to  see  you  when  you're  of  an  agreeable  turn  of  mind." 

"  If  I  hadn't  a  been  just  runnin'  over  with  good-nature,  I 
shouldn't  ha'  been  here,"  said  Lizzie.  "  Give  me  the  baby,  Kate, 
an'  I'll  nurse  him  a  bit  for  you  !  " 

"  No,  thank  you,"  said  Kate ;  "  he'd  give  you  a  deal  of  trouble, 
and  Marigold's  used  to  him."  And  she  deposited  the  infant  in 
Marigold's  lap;  this  disposition  of  her  treasure  being  the  only 
punishment  she  condescended  to  inflict  upon  the  unwelcome  visitor. 

Lizzie,  not  being  a  baby-loving  woman,  did  not  feel  the  punish* 
ment  acutely,  though  she  could  appreciate  the  intention  of  the 
chastiser.  By  sundry  little  hitching  movements,  she  enhanced 
her  unencumbered  enjoyment  of  the  best  seat  at  the  fire,  and  pro- 
ceeded to  business. 

"  You  might  a'  thought,"  she  said,  "  that  I  came  to  have  my 
boast  over  you  about  Ulick ;  but  it's  not  in  me.  I  never  see  things 
turnin'  out  before  my  eyes  the  way  I  said  they  would,  but  I  get 
sorry-like  for  them  that's  took  in ;  and  a  sort  of  modestness  cornea 
over  me.  You  nearly  threw  me  out  o'  your  door,  a  while  ago,  for 
savin'  he  was  goin'  away,  an'  leavin'  them  behind  that  he  ought  to 
took  with  him ;  an'  many's  the  one  would  come  an'  say  to  you, 
*  Ha,  good  woman,  you  thought  you  knew  better  nor  me ! '  But 
it's  not  my  way,  and  I  couldn't  have  the  heart  to  do  it.  It's  what 
I  come  for  to-night,  to  see  Marigold,  and  to  ask  her  how  she  was 
bearin'  her  trouble." 

Kate  reddened  and  frowned  with  wrath ;  but  Marigold  laughed 
gaily,  tickling  the  baby's  feet,  and  nodding  in  its  face. 

"  Baby,  baby !  do  you  hear  what  nonsense  she  is  talking  P 
Ulick  is  unkind,  and  Marigold  is  breaking  her  heart.  Tell  her  to 
go  away,  and  look  after  her  own  lover,  and  leave  Marigold's  busi- 
ness alone ! " 

Thus  was  the  gauntlet  hurled  down  in  earnest  to  Lizzie,  who* 


-678  Marigold. 

it  was  well  known,  had  never  had  a  lover,  her  small,  spiteful  ways 
not  being  attractive  to  the  sympathies  of  man. 

"  Lover  or  no  lover,"  said  she,  "  it's  better  be  without  sich 
rubbish,  nor  be  made  a  fool  of  by  one  that  goes  away  an'  leaves 
you.  Who  bought  eight  yards  of  light  grey  stuff  in  Mill-street, 
the  other  day,  to  make  a  wedding-dress,  I'd  like  to  know  ?  " 

"Aha!  Johnny!  do  you  hear  that?"  chirruped  Marigold. 
"  Would  she  like  to  go  and  search  my  boxes,  to  see  if  that  person 
was  Marigold  P  Sit  up,  little  baby,  and  ask  her  about  it.  Be  civil 
to  your  visitor,  little  man  of  the  house !  " 

"  For  shame  with  your  tauntin'  I "  cried  Kate.  "  No  fear  but 
you'd  be  at  your  old  work  before  long.  Flick  hasn't  run  away, 
■as  the  likes  o'  you  would  make  out,  but  he's  gone  awhile  to  England 
on  business  of  his  own.  And  Marigold's  bound  to  him  as  fast  as 
•can  be!" 

u  Oh,  if  they're  married "  sneered  Lizzie. 

"  I  am  no  wife,"  said  Marigold ;  "  I  will  be  no  man's  wife  till 
he's  ready,  to  take  my  hand  before  the  world.  When  Ulick  is 
ready,  he'll  know  where  to  find  me,  and,kin  the  meantime,  we  know 
our  own  affairs." 

"  I  hope  so,"  said  Lizzie  ;  "  but  if  I  was  you  I'd  ha'  made  him 
»do  right  by  me  before  he  put  the  sea  between  us " 

*  But  you're  not  me,  you  see ! "  cried  Marigold,  with  another 
merry  laugh.  "  Bah,  Lizzie,  go  home !  and  tell  your  companions 
that  Marigold  is  as  happy  as  a  queen,  and  can  afford  to  make  fun 
d  the  whole  envious  flock  of  you ! " 

Saying  this,  the  girl  sprang  up,  and  began  dancing  about  the 
kitchen  with  the  baby,  making  such  mirthful  noise  of  singing 
.and  laughing  and  chirruping,  that  Lizzie's  angry  answering 
eloquence  was  lost.  Even  Kate  did  not  hear  it  properly;  and 
though  she  was  quite  ready  to  retort,  could  not  do  so  with  effect 
because  of  Marigold's  tricks.  The  crowing  baby  was  danced  into 
her  face ;  his  fat  hand  was  thrust  into  her  mouth ;  she  was  forced 
into  the  play,  whether  she  would  or  not.  Lizzie,  having  struggled 
violently  and  vainly  for  a  hearing,  gave  way  in  time  to  a  whirl* 
wind  of  passion,  and,  finally,  made  her  exit  in  a  condition  of 
ignominious  defeat.  In  thus  defying  Lizzie,  Marigold  knew  well 
that  she  had  also  exposed  herself  to  the  shafts  of  all  the  Lizzie- 
like people  of  her  acquaintance.  But  this  troubled  her  little 
when,  the  very  next  morning,  Ulick's  first  letter  was  put  into  her 
iand. 

The  letter  was  full  of  tenderness ;  and,  though  it  threw  no 

Digitized  by  VjUUV  Iv, 


Marigold.  679 

light  on  the  mysterious  cause  of  the  writer's  departure,  Marigold 
was  perfectly  content  with  it  Her  smiles  fell  on  every  one  that 
day,  and  the  sun  shone  out  over  the  lonely  grey  sea  which  so 
haunted  her  thoughts.  Too  delicate  and  proud  to  speak  of  her 
happiness  to  anyone,  she  carried  the  precious  paper  over  her  heart ; 
while  Kate  spread  triumphantly  the  news  of  its  arrival  Even 
then  the  Lizzies  laughed,  and  said,  "  It  is  easy  for  a  clerk  to  write 
letters ;  it  is  another  thing  to  cross  the  sea !  " 

Five  letters  came  to  Marigold  from  TJlick,  none  of  which  con* 
veyed  any  news  as  to  his  future  plans,  or  present  means  of  exist- 
ence. They  were  dated  from  London,  written  evidently  in  the 
flush  of  good  spirits,  and  overflowing  with  the  assurances  of  love. 
After  this  came  a  sixth,  shorter  than  the  others,  and  as  if  written 
in  haste ;  then  the  watched-f  or  time  came  round  again,  when  a 
seventh  might  he  expected.  The  morning  passed,  and  the  evening 
passed,  and  the  letter  did  not  come.  The  blossoms  fell  off  Mari- 
gold's flowers  that  day,  as  her  fingers  worked  amongst  them. 

A  week  went  by,  and  still  no  letter.  Marigold  smiled  at  Kate 
across  the  fire,  and  repeated  to  her  Ulick's words — "You must 
remember  that  a  letter  will  occasionally  miscarry." 

"  Goodness  me !  "  said  Kate.  "  To  be  sure  they  will ;  and  you 
may  as  well  make  up  your  mind  to  it" 

"  Of  course,  I  made  up  my  mind  to  it  from  the  first,"  said 
Marigold;  and  giving  up  the  missing  letter,  which  seemed  to 
have  dropped  into  that  cruel  ocean,  set  herself  hopefully  to  look 
for  its  successor.  But  the  letter-time  came  round  again,  and 
brought  her  nothing  more. 

Five  times  Marigold  looked  vainly  for  the  longed-for  packet, 
on  the  accustomed  day,  before  she  walked  tremblingly  into  the 
poet-office  to  inquire  for  missing  letters.  Around  this  bold  effort 
clung  her  last  remaining  hope,  which  was  speedily  crushed.  As 
she  walked  home  along  the  oft-travelled  road,  Ulick's  words  rang 
in  her  ears :  "  When  I  cease  to  write,  you  may  cease  to  trust" 
The  time  had  now  come,  and  her  heart  must  break ;  the  wind 
mourned  along  the  bare  brown  hedgerows,  and  the  first  touch  of 
winter  desolated  the  world ;  while  she  moved  slowly,  as  if  on  a 
strange  journey  in  a  new  land,  her  head  erect  as  ever  under  the 
accustomed  basket,  her  dry  and  burning  eyes  seeing  nothing  but 
that  dreadful  ocean,  which  had  at  last  overwhelmed  her  indeed. 
Kate  did  not  venture  to  question  her  when  she  returned  to  the 
•cottage,  and  passed  silently  into  her  own  little  room.  There  was 
that  in  her  face  which  warned  off  even  sympathy. 

*      F         digitized  by  GOOgle 


580  Marigold. 

After  this,  her  white  and  altered  face  was  seen  less  frequently 
on  the  road  and  in  the  town.  She  shrank  alike  from  friends  and 
enemies,  and  sat  alone  in  her  corner,  rapt  in'  an  agony  of 
bewildered  thought.  So  the  first  weeks  of  winter  wore  on,  until, 
one  evening,  Peter  Lally  arrived  from  the  Towers,  and  sat  down 
by  Kate's  fireside,  inquiring  for  Marigold. 

"  I'm  raal  unaisy  about  her,"  said  Peter,  lighting  his  pipe,  and 
speaking  low.  "  It's  sich  a  long,  long  time  since  she  came  near 
us  beyond.    Is  it  true  she  got  no  letters  this  while  back  P  " 

"  It's  true,"  said  Kate.  "  I'm  afraid  he's  a  bad  one,  after  alL 
She's  just  dyin'  afore  my  eyes ;  an'  sure,  what  can  I  do  for  her  ?  " 
"It's  the  way  of  the  world,"  said  Peter,  ruminating  sadly. 
"  Little  fault  they'd  make  of  such  conduct  in  London,  I'm  thinking 
The  young  and  light-minded  picks  up  with  new  ways.  They  say 
4  absence  makes  the  heart  grow  fonder,'  but  it's  my  opinion  that 
love's  a  flower  that  often  dies  of  transplantation.  However,  I 
mustn't  say  a  word,  for  I  promised  her  to  believe  in  him." 

"  She  won't  hear  a  word  against  him  yet,"  said  Kate ;  "  but 
it's  aisy  to  see  that  the  sorrows  of  death  are  in  her  heart." 

Marigold's  door  now  opened,  and  she  came  out  of  her  room. 
"  I  thought  I  heard  a  friendly  voice,"  she  began,  with  an  attempt 
at  her  old  lively  manner ;  but,  catching  Peter's  glance,  eye  and 
tone  failed,  her  lip  quivered,  and  then  settled  into  its  new 
expression  of  enduring  pain. 

"It's  about  Poll  Hackett  I  came,"  said  the  old  man,  having 
cleared  his  throat,  and  made  a  great  clatter  with  his  chair.  "  She's 
ill,  poor  body,  with  a  terrible  bad  turn  of  her  rheumatics.  She 
wants  some  one  to  look  after  her,  that's  the  fact,  an'  she'll  hava 
nobody  but  Marigold,  say  what  you  will  to  her." 

Marigold  glanced  at  him  quickly,  and  put  her  hand  into  his. 
"Thank  you,  Peter,"  she  said,  "I  will  go  back  with  you  at. 
once." 

"  That's  the  girl  that's  always  ready  to  make  herself  useful ! " 
cried  Peter,  delighted.  "But  you  mustn't  be  mindin'  Poll,  what- 
ever ramblin'  rubbish  she  puts  off  her  tongue.  The  talk's  the- 
only  comfort  she  has  at  present." 

"  I  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Marigold.  "  Don't  be  afraid 
to  speak  plainly  to  me.  It  will  be  better  for  me  to  hear  Poll,  no> 
matter  what  she  says,  than  to  meet  people  at  all  the  corners  of 
the  streets,  and  have  to  answer  their  questions ! " 

"  You're  right ! "  said  Peter.  "  You're  the  sort  of  a  woman* 
a  man  can  be  honest  with.    Well,  yes,  Kate,  I'll  drink  your  health 

Digitized  by  Vj  vJwVJ  l^. 


Marigold.  581 

In  a  cup  of  tea ;  an*  what  I  was  wantin'  to  express  to  Marigold  is 

ihis :  It's  not  altogether  of  ourselves  poor  Poll  is  ravin'  lately 

though  for  a  woman  that  can  keep  a  stone  in  her  sling,  an*  let  fly 
at  you  when  you  don't  expect  it,  I  give  the  degree  to  Mrs.  Hackett 
— it's  chiefly  this  report  that's  on  her  mind,  about  the  master  of 
Hildebrand  Towers  that's  turned  up,  they  say,  an9  is  comin'  home 
*t  last." 

"  What  P  "  cried  Kate,  kindling  at  once  into  a  blaze  of  curiosity. 
"  Don't  talk  sich  nonsense !  But  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Lally ; 
you  ought  to  know  the  best." 

"  It's  nothing  but  an  idle  report,'1  said  Peter ;  "  but  yon  poor 
woman  can  think  of  nothin'  else.  Seems  as  if  she  thought  she 
had  grown  into  a  sort  o'  lady  of  the  Towers  herself !  But  you'd 
better  let  us  be  off,  Mrs.  Kate,  or  the  night  will  be  too  late 
■upon  us !  " 


Chapter    IV. 

When  Marigold  arrived  at  Hildebrand  Towers,  she  found  Poll 
Hackett  sitting  in  an  arm-chair,  by  her  fireside,  wrapped  up  in 
flannels,  and  unable  to  move  any  member  except  her  tongue.  All 
her  thoughts  were  occupied  with  ringing  the  changes  upon  one 
idea  ;  whether  or  not  the  news  could  be  true,  that  the  master  of 
Hildebrand  Towers  had  been  found  at  last.  Sometimes,  she  was 
perfectly  sure  there  was  not  a  doubt  of  the  fact,  and  lamented 
bitterly  the  accident  of  her  own  state  of  temporary  helplessness. 

"  To  think  of  me  sittin'  here  like  a  mummy,  or  a  cripple,  for 
the  master  to  walk  in  upon,  as  if  I  had  been  talon'  my  money  for 
nothin'  but  a  shelter  to  my  own  poor  bones,  all  these  years.  Me, 
that  was  always  on  the  trot,  in  an1  out,  up  an'  down,  expectin'  an' 
ex  pectin',  preparin'  to  that  degree,  that  I  declare  my  mind's  a'most 
wore  out  wid  the  dint  of  the  perpetual  preparation.  'Never  you 
leave  off  bein'  ready,'  said  the  ould  mistress  to  me  afore  she  died, 
and  I  never  did,  as  Peter  Lally  can  witness  to  you.  All  the  coals 
that  has  been  burned  to  death  in  them  rooms  for  nothin' !  All 
the  chickens  that  has  been  fattened,  over  an'  over  again,  runnin' 
up  to  my  feet  an'  askin'  to  be  killed  for  the  master's  dinner !  An' 
now  to  think  of  him  waitin'  till  I'm  pinned  to  my  chair  like  a 
good-for-nothing.  An'  comin'  walkin'  in  disgusted,  because  every- 
thing's at  sixes  and  sevens ! " 

Digitized  by  VjOOQLC 


582  Marigold. 

"  But  they're  not  at  sixes  and  sevens !  "  Marigold  would  cry. 
"  The  fires  are  blazing  beautifully,  all  through  the  upper  rooms ; 
there  isn't  a  speck  of  dust  anywhere,  for  I've  just  been  all  round 
with  a  duster.  I've  even  got  in  some  scarlet  berries  off  the  old 
garden  wall,  to  mix  with  the  ivy  in  the  big  vases,  in  the  drawing- 
room.  There's  provision  for  a  good  dinner  in  the  larder,  and  six 
pairs  of  sheets  aired  as  dry  as  can  be.  I  don't  know  anything 
about  the  place  that  isn't  as  it  should  be,  except  one  little  hole  in 
the  carpet,  on  the  stair  that  goes  up  to  the  attics,  and  I  mean  to. 
darn  it  directly.  So  make  your  mind  easy.  Poll  Hackett,  and  let 
me  give  you  a  good  rubbing  with  this  liniment !  " 

But  the  next  day  Poll  had  a  new  cause  for  uneasiness. 
"Nonsense,  child!"  she  said  to  Marigold.  "  Stop  wastin* 
your  trouble  all  for  nothing.  There's  no  more  a  master  comin' 
here  nor  you're  goin'  to  Australia,  only  wicked  talk  of  mischievioua 
people  to  throw  me  into  a  fever,  and  me  with  the  rheumatism. 
Go  out  an'  tell  Peter  Lally  not  to  be  makin'  a  fool  of  himself , 
dreamin'  over  triumphant  arches,  for  I  seen  them  in  his  eyes  last 
night,  an'  him  talkin'  to  me ;  and  then  come  back  an'  settle  down 
here  wid  your  sewin'  or  something !  " 

And  Marigold,  glad  to  get  away  awhile,  put  on  her  cloak,  and 
went  out  along  the  damp  gravel  paths,  by  the  trim  lawns,  and 
ancient  gardens,  to  the  ivied  corner  where  stood  Peter  Lally  V 
dwelling,  in  the  angle  of  two  peach-tree-covered  walls.  As  die- 
went  along,  two  or  three  of  Poll's  fretful  words  rang  in  her  ears, 
with  a  perplexing  pertinacity.  "No  more  nor  you  are  going  to- 
Australia/'  said  a  voice  in  her  ear;  and  answered  itself  again, 
"  Perhaps  you  are  going  to  Australia !  " 

Peter  Lally  was  sitting  in  his  cottage,  with  his  chair  drawn  ta 
the  hearth,  and  his  pipe  lying  unlighted  on  the  hob  beside  him. 
His  eyes  were  fixed  absently  on  a  smouldering  piece  of  wood  in 
the  grate,  and  there  was  a  general  look  about  him  which  suggested 
that  something  unusual  had  occurred.  Peter  was  in  no  way  a  chilly 
kind  of  man,  and  not  given  to  sitting  by  his  fireside  in  the  middle 
of  the  day. 

"  Oh,  aye ! "  said  Peter  to  Marigold.  "  She's  on  the  turn  now. 
Poll  takes  a  try  at  every  opinion  under  the  sun,  an'  of  coorse  she 
must  happen  on  the  right  one  sometimes.  She's  not  hit  on  it 
now,  howsomdever.  We  must  give  her  another  day  or  two  to  be 
round  at  the  truth." 

"What  is  the  truth,  then,  Peter P"  said  Marigold;  "for  this- 
was  truth  with  you  only  yesterday." 

Digitized  by  VjOOQLC 


Marigold.  583* 

"  But  twenty-four  hours  has  gone  hy  since  then,  my  girl ;  and' 
there's  many  a  thing  knocked  down  or  put  on  its  feet  in  as  many- 
seconds.  There's  a  message  come  in  to  me  an  hour  ago,  an'  it  ha& 
took  the  breath  out  o'  me,  somehow ;  so  that  I  cannot  do  fair  by 
my  dixonary  words.  I'll  be  able  to  talk  to  you  this  evening,, 
little  Marigold.  When  the  lawyer  gentleman  arrives,  I'll  have 
my  wits  got  ready." 

"What  do  you  mean,  Peter  P"  said  Marigold.  "You  don't 
want  me  to  keep  puzzling  at  a  riddle  until  evening  P  " 

"  The  master's  found ! "  said  Peter,  lifting  his  gray  head,  and 
gazing  at  the  girl,  half  in  triumph,  and  half  in  blind  amazement 
at  his  own  statement.  "  The  lawyer  '11  be  here  to-night,  to  bid  us 
what  to  do !  Go  off,  now,  and  talk  your  women- talk  over  it ;  for 
Peter's  too  dumbfounded  to  make  head  or  tail  out  o'  it  yet !  " 

That  evening  the  lawyer  from  London  arrived :  a  gentleman, 
who  had  for  many  years  paid  occasional  visits  to  the  Towers,  to 
collect  rente  on  the  estate,  and  to  see  that  the  place  was  kept  in-, 
order.    He  was  the  only  master  whom  Poll  and  Peter  knew. 

This  time,  however,  he  came  to  make  arrangements  for  the- 
arrival  of  the  long-looked-for  owner  of  Hildebrand  Towers.  Being 
a  person  of  few  words,  he  had  little  to  say,  after  all,  when  he  sum- 
moned Peter  into  his  presence. 

"  Your  new  master  is  a  fine  young  man,"  he  said,  nodding 
pleasantly  at  Peter ;  "  one  you  need  not  be  afraid  of.  It's  a  curious 
story,  is  his ;  you  will  hear  it  all,  no  doubt,  by-and-by.  He  might 
have  been  here  before  now,  only  he  has  been  ill  of  a  fever.  He 
had  a  good  deal  of  anxiety  about  making  good  his  claim,  and  that,, 
very  [probably,  knocked  him  up.  Well,  you  will  remember  my 
instructions  as  usuaL  I  have  to  go  ten  miles  further  to-night ;  so- 
must  waste  no  more  time." 

And  away  he  went,  leaving  Peter,  Poll,  and  Marigold  very 
little  wiser  than  when  he  came.  One  thing  only  they  knew  for 
certain;  that,  on  a  particular  day,  the  master  of  Hildebrand 
Towers  would  dine  in  the  old  dining-room — at  the  board  whereat 
his  ancestors  had  eaten  and  drunk.  It  was  his  wish  to  come  quietly 
and  alone  into  the  place,  and  to  make  hereafter  such  changes  as 
might  seem  to  him  suitable. 

"Rub  me  well !  "  cried  Poll  Hackett  to  Marigold;  "  Rub,  as- 
you  never  rubbed  in  your  life  before ;  for  I  must  be  about,  to 
receive  the  new  master !  Things  is  comin'  out  just  as  I  always 
knew  they  would,  only  nobody  would  believe  me.  I  knew  I'd  be 
caught  this  ways;  only  I  won't,  if  the  Lord  gives  me  life.     I'll 

Digitized  by  vjUUV  Lv, 


581  Marigold. 

be  tip  and  goin'  about,  and  get  my  credit  for  all  I've  done  these  yean 
back.  There'll  still  be  a  housekeeper  wantin',  let  him  be  what  he 
likes ;  an'  I'm  not  to  be  thrust  out  as  old  rubbish  an1  another  put 
into  my  shoes.  Now,  Marigold,  dear,"  she  went  on,  "I  want  you 
to  stick  to  me ;  and  don't  let  me  to  be  sending  for  help  into  the 
town  for  the  sake  of  a  gentleman's  dinner.  There's  them  would 
be  glad  to  come  out  and  fill  up  the  kitchen,  and  curtsey  in  the 
hall  in  white  caps  and  aprons,  an'  take  my  credit  away  from  me, 
and  put  in  for  my  place.  But,  if  you  stick  to  me  now,  Til  tide 
-over  the  time,  an'  soon  be  ready  for  my  work  again." 

"  Don't  be  uneasy,"  said  Marigold ;  "  well  have  nobody  from 
the  town.  You'll  show  me  how  to  cook  the  dinner,  and  I  know 
how  a  table  should  be  arranged.  I'll  serve  him — I'd  as  soon  do 
one  thing  as  another — and  I'll  try  and  make  you  well  enough  to 
have  all  the  curtseying  in  the  hall  to  yourself." 

Marigold,  having  thus  pledged  herself,  went  about  making  her 
last  effort  at  being  useful  to  those  who  had  been  good  to  her.  She 
took  her  way  up  and  down  through  the  old  chambers  and  passages 
•of  the  house,  seeing  that  everything  was  well-ordered,  placing  old- 
fashioned  articles  of  furniture  in  their  best  aspect,  brightening  and 
garnishing  a  little  here  and  there,  so  that  the  house  might  appear 
well  cared  for,  and  Poll  If ackett's  precious  "  credit "  should  not 
suffer.  In  the  long,  faded,  antique  drawing-room  she  placed 
branches  of  hot-house  flowers  in  the  great  china  vases  on  the 
mantelpieces,  saying  to  herself,  "  it  is  the  last  time  I  shall  work 
among  Peter's  flowers."  In  the  dim  ghostly  mirrors  she  saw  her 
own  solitary  figure  and  the  glow  of  the  fire,  and  the  blush  and 
freshness  of  the  flowers,  making  a  wonderful  patch  of  life  and 
warmth  in  the  middle  of  the  lack-lustre,  moth-tinted  room.  She 
Temembered  the  evening  when  she  had  dressed  like  a  lady  to  amuse 
Poll  Hackett,  and  had  danced  about  her ;  "  a  poor,  foolish,  light- 
headed thing !  "  she  said  now,  looking  around  her.  And  then  she 
^recollected  how  much  happiness  was  included  in  the  folly  of  that 
day — how  TJlick  had  come  to  meet  her  among  the  trees,  and  how 
they  had  talked,  and  she  had  believed.  With  that  day  had  set 
the  glory  of  the  summer  of  her  life ! 

It  was  wonderful  how  the  old  reception-rooms  warmed  up 
under  the  bloom  of  her  decorations.  This  was  her  last  piece  of 
work,  and  she  would  do  it  well,  she  thought ;  and  went  out  to 
Peter  Lally  for  more  flowers  to  weave  into  it.  It  was  a  day  of 
pale  gleams  and  weeping  rains,  that  made  the  thickets  blacker,  and 
tare  branches  seem  more  naked  as  they  shivered  against  the  sky. 

Digitized  by  VjVJ wVJ  l^. 


Marigold.  586 

Marigold  traversed  the  wet  paths  towards  the  gardens,  and,  follow- 
ing a  wayward  impulse,  quitted  them  to  cross  the  long  swards  and 
to  reach  the  mossy  place  enclosed  by  trees  where  stood  the  sundial. 
Here  she  and  Ulick  had  lingered  on  that  summer  evening  which 
seemed  so  long  ago ;  then  the  rose- thickets  near  had  been  covered 
with  bloom,  the  blackbirds  sang,  the  air  was  full  of  perfume  and 
the  sky  of  golden  clouds.  She  saw  again  the  burnished  foliage 
and  deep  purple  shadows  of  the  trees,  she  felt  a  warm  light  on  her 
face,  and  a  tender  touch  upon  her  hand.  Now,  what  a  change ! 
Never  again  would  she  see  the  moving  shadow  chased  by  the  sun 
over  the  grey  face  of  the  dial ;  never  pluck  the  roses,  nor  listen 
for  the  blackbird's  note ;  never  feel  smile  of  love  on  brow  or  tender 
touch  on  hand.  Beyond  these  blackened,  blighted  trees,  beyond 
that  rainy  horizon,  stretched  the  mighty  restless  ocean  which  had 
already  divided  her  from  her  happiness,  and  was  now  drawing  her 
spirit  away  with  it, .  as  it  ebbed  moaning  to  the  most  distant  side 
of  the  world.  Farther  than  he  had  gone  she  would  go ;  those 
strong,  wandering,  resistless  waves  should  take  her  in  their  arms, 
either  to  carry  her  into  eternity,  or  into  some  new  existence  of 
action  yet  unshaped  and  undreamed.  In  the  sighing  of  the  rain, 
in  the  raving  of  the  wind  through  the  trees,  she  heard  only  its 
hoarse  urgent  voice  calling  her  away. 

Peter  Lally  was  busy  arranging  the  shelves  of  his  greenhouses 
when  Marigold  came  to  him  praying  for  more  flowers. 

"  I'll  give  you  plenty,"  he  said,  "  only  you  must  leave  me 
•enough  to  look  handsome  here  myself.  The  masther  will  expect 
me  to  look  beautiful ;  oh,  then,  if  I  had  only  all  the  flowers  round 
about  me  that  I  reared  and  buried  since  I've  been  waiting  for  him ! 
There,  I've  smashed  a  pot !  my  hands  are  shakin',  and  I  feel  all 
someway  taken  up  by  the  roots.  I  don't  know  what's  going  to 
happen  next,  the  times  is  so  quare.  When  a  thing  you've  been 
expectin'  for  a  lifetime  comes  an'  stares  you  in  the  face  of  a 
suddent,  it  seems  as  if  it  ought  to  be  a  sort  of  finishing  ofE  to  you 
some  way  or  another.  Howsomdever  I'll  be  here  to  the  fore  in  the 
spring,  my  girl ;  it'll  take  more  frosts  nor  one  to  kill  me  out ;  an' 
I'll  have  a  pretty  little  lot  of  plants  for  you  to  begin  your  work 
with." 

"I  won't  want  them,  Peter,"  said  Marigold;  "I'm  going 
away.     I'm  going  to  Australia." 

"  Australia !  You !  "  cried  Peter.  "  No,  no,  Marigold :  don't 
be  lettin'  such  thoughts  come  into  your  head.  You've  had  hard 
.times  upon  you ;  but  you're  not  going  to  be  astray  on  the  world, 
Vol.  xit.  No.  161.  43 


986  Marigold. 

for  the  sake  o'  them  that  isn't  as  honest  as  yourself.  I  was  thinkin* 
that  when  the  new  times  is  come  you'd  fall  into  somethin'  nice 
about  the  place,  an'  might  work  your  way  up  to  be  a  lady,  as  you've 
the  right  to  be.  As  long  as  Peter's  alive,  you  won't  want  for  one 
to  be  a  father  to  you ;  but  you'd  be  lonesome  crossin'  the  say,  my 
girl!" 

"It's  here  that  I'm  lonesome,  Peter,"  said  Marigold.  "It's 
only  because  of  the  winter-time,  and  the  coldness  and  barrenness 
of  everything  that  I  can  get  on  with  it  at  all.  I  couldn't  wait 
here  to  see  another  spring  coming  over  the  world.  The  summer- 
look  of  everything  would  take  the  last  drop  of  blood  out  of  my 
heart ;  and  I  have  my  life  to  live,  and  I'll  need  all  my  strength. 
I've  no  place  here  any  more ;  in  another  world  I'll  make  room  for 

myself.    I've  done  with  flowers 111  never  meet  another  one 

like  you ;  but  I  must  go  my  way,  all  the  same." 

She  turned  her  back  upon  him  with  a  dry  sob,  picked  up  her 
flowers,  and  went  out  of  the  greenhouse. 

The  day  arrived,  which  was  to  bring  a  master  to  take  posses- 
sion of  Hildebrand  Towers.  The  rain  had  cleared  away ;  a  yel- 
low lake  had  welled  up  among  the  grey  wastes  of  the  clouds ;  the 
old  rooks  plumed  themselves  on  the  ivy,  and  made  mysterious  com- 
ment upon  certain  events  which  the  day  was  to  bring  forth.  Poll 
Hackett,  with  the  help  of  liniment  and  a  determined  will,  was 
hobbling  about  in  her  best  attire,  and  had  been  practising  curtseys 
all  the  morning.  Snow-white  napery,  a  hundred  years  old,  which 
had  been  used  to  see  the  light  only  on  occasion  of  being  aired  and 
bleached,  now  clothed  the  old  mahogany  of  the  dining-room; 
glass  and  china  twinkled,  and  silver  shone ;  flowers  bloomed  in 
moss  in  the  centre  of  the  table ;  the  firelight  flashed  over  the 
astonishment  and  satisfaction  of  the  assembled  company  of  Hilde- 
brands  on  the  walls,  who  looked  down  on  the  preparations  for  their 
long-missing  and  long-expected  descendant  At  dusk,  Marigold 
looked  out  of  one  of  the  deep,  beetle-browed  windows,  and  saw 
how,  in  place  of  the  yellow  lake,  a  fire  now  seemed  kindled  in  the 
heavens,  against  which  the  trees  were  outspread,  as  if  for  warmth. 
She  listened  for  wheels,  closed  the  shutters,  lighted  the  candles, 
and  returned  to  the  kitchen,  to  move  the  roasting  pullets  a  little 
further  from  the  fire. 

"  He's  past  his  hour/'  said  Peter  Lally,  who  sat  at  the  fire  in 
a  state  of  feverish  expectation.  "  He's  not  one  of  the  punctual 
sort ;  that's  all  we  know  about  him,  yet." 

"  Whisht,"  cried  Poll.     w  Didn't  you  hear  a  door  olappin* 

Digitized  by  vjUUV  I  v. 


Marigold.  58? 

upstairs  P  I  feel  as  if  there  was  something  walkin'  about  the  house. 
I  wish  he  would  come." 

Suddenly  the  door-bell  rang  out,  sharp  and  clear. 

"  It's  him  1 "  cried  Poll,  fluttering  hysterically. 

"  God  bid  him  welcome ! "  said  Peter,  rising  solemnly. 

"  It's  only  the  back-gate  bell/'  said  Marigold,  quietly.  "  A 
beggar,  or  a  messenger.    I'll  see  who  it  is." 

Poll  and  Peter  sank  back  into  their  seats. 

"  She  has  her  wits  about  her,"  said  Peter,  rubbing  his  fore- 
head in  a  bewildered  way.     "  It's  well  there's  somebody  brisk." 

Marigold  took  a  lantern,  and  disappeared  down  a  long  dark 
passage,  and  the  others  were  again  intent  upon  listening.  All  at 
once  an  extraordinary  cry  rang  up  out  of  the  depths  of  the  dark- 
ness into  which  Marigold  had  passed ;  and  then  there  was  silence 
again. 

"  She's  murdered ! "  shrieked  Poll.  "  I  knew  there  was  some- 
thing quare  in  the  house ! " 

"  Tut,  woman !  "  said  Peter,  and  seizing  the  poker,  he  trotted 
down  the  passage. 

Mrs.  Hackett's  fears  seemed,  for  a  moment,  reasonable  to  Peter, 
when  he  saw  on  before  him,  at  the  end  of  the  passage,  an  open 
door,  the  lantern  on  the  ground,  the  dark  figure  of  a  man  within 
the  threshold,  and  Marigold  drooping  over  the  arm  of  the  stranger. 

"  Oh,  Peter !  oh,  Peter ! "  cried  Ulick's  voice, "  I  have  come  too 
suddenly  ;  I  have  killed  her." 

"  You  have  treated  her  badly,  at  all  events,  young  man ! "  said 
Peter,  sternly. 

Marigold  lifted  her  white  face,  and  looked  at  Peter.  "Bring 
him  in,"  she  said.     "  He  is  wet  and  cold." 

H  Now,  Poll,  woman,  quit  your  skirlin'  I "  said  Peter,  as  the 
three  entered  the  warm  and  fragrant  kitchen.  "  My  word  for  it, 
there's  nobody  has  time  to  attend  to  you !  It's  these  cold  hands 
here  that  wants  a  little  rabbin'  now." 

"  Don't  mind  me,  Peter,"  said  Marigold.  "  I've  got  back  my 
breath  again.  Sorrow  did  not  kill  me,  and  joy  will  not  kill  me 
neither.  Here's  a  hungry  man  that  wants  his  supper.  The  fowls 
will  be  spoiled ;  I'll  dish  them  at  once ! " 

"  But  the  masther !  "  cried  Peter. 

"  He  ought  to  have  been  in  time,"  said  Marigold.  "  That  is, 
if  he  wanted  three  times  more  dinner  than  he  could  eat." 

"  You  look  pale  and  thin ;  have  you  been  ill  P "  said  Peter, 
softening  towards  Ulick,  as  he  looked  in  his  face. 

Digitized  by  GOOgle 


588  Marigold. 

"  I  have  been  very  near  death  ;  else  yon  should  never  have  had 
to  reproach  me,"  said  Ulick.  *  I  have  a  long  story  to  tell ;  but 
there  is  plenty  of  time  for  it." 

"  The  enemies  were  stronger  than  you  expected,  perhaps  P  " 
said  Marigold. 

"  Yes,  but  their  power  is  over,"  said  Ulick.  "  I  told  you  I 
should  come  back  if  I  overcame  them." 

"  Oh,  do  tell  us  all  about  it ! "  cried  Poll. 

"  Let  hi™  rest  a  little,  first,"  said  Marigold,  seeing  something 
in  TJlick's  face  which  she  did  not  quite  understand ;  and  then 
Ulick  held  her  hand  tighter  than  before,  and  began  to  pour 
out  stories  of  his  experience  of  travel,  telling  of  London  shops, 
and  London  streets,  and  of  fellow-travellers  by  ship  and  by  coach. 
So  the  time  passed ;  the  candles  were  burning  away  in  the  dining- 
room;  the  carefully-cooked  dinner  was  spoiled  and  overlooked. 
Poll  forgot  her  rheumatism,  and  Peter  his  feverish  expectation  of 
the  descendant  of  the  Hildebrands. 

"  Good  heavens !  "  cried  the  old  man  at  last.  "  We  have  quite 
forgotten  about  the  master ! " 

All  four  looked  startled  at  the  words.  Ulick  trembled  strangely, 
and  gazed  anxiously  in  Marigold's  face. 

"  Ulick  can  tell  us  about  him,  Peter,"  said  Marigold.  "  Ulick 
knows  something.    Do  you  not  P  *' 

"  Yes,"  said  Ulick,  gravely. 

"  What  P    Is  he  alive  P    Will  he  be  here  soon  P  " 

"  He  is  alive.    He  is  here.    I  am  the  master." 

The  silence  of  bewildered  amazement  fell  on  the  three  hearers 
of  these  strange  words.  They  had  not  heard  aright ;  they  could 
not  take  it  in ;  they  were  stunned. 

"  Has  no  one  a  word  for  me  ?    Am  I  to  get  no  welcome  P  " 

"  You,  Ulick ! "  stammered  Peter  Lally. 

"  I,  Ulick,  am  also  Godfrey  Hildebrand,"  said  the  young  man. 
"  I  did  not  know  it  till  that  news  came  which  took  me  away  to 
England ;  and  even  then  I  could  not  tell  whether  or  not  I  should 
be  able  to  prove  the  truth.  It  was  the  interest  of  others  more 
powerful  to  ignore  my  claim,  to  make  me  appear  an  impostor.  By 
degrees  I  shall  be  able  to  tell  you  how  much  they  have  made  me 
suffer ;  how  my  silence,  my  illness,  were  all  the  effect  of  their 
unscrupulous  attempts  to  put  me  down.  In  the  meantime,  I  want 
a  welcome  to  my  home." 

Peter  Lally  got  up,  trembling,  and  pulling  his  grey  forelock, 
looked  out  of  watering  eyes  in  the  young  man's  agitated  face. 

Digitized  by  vjVJwVJLv, 


A  Poet's  Love.  589 

Poll  Haokett,  having  shrieked  three  times,  made  desperate  attempts 
to  come  out  oi  her  chair  and  perform  a  curtsey. 

"Heaven  bless  my  master ! "  said  Peter.  "  Excuse  me,  sir,  I 
do  not  rightly  feel  it  real  yet.  But  Heaven  bless  my  master,  that 
I  have  lived  to  see ! " 

"  Thank  you,  Peter/9  said  the  new  Hildebrand,  shaking  his 
old  friend's  hand.  "  Please  God,  good  times  are  before  us  all ! 
Marigold,  sweet  soul,  don't  cry  so.  It  is  strange  to  see  tears  from 
you  now,  after  all  you  have  borne  so  bravely !  " 

"  Oh,  Ulick,  I  am  not  fit  to  be  a  lady !  "  whispered  Marigold, 
who  was  sobbing  on  his  shoulder. 

"  Are  you  not  P  "  said  Ulick,  proudly.  "  The  world  shall  judge 
of  that  by-aud-by." 


A  POET'S  LOVE. 


0 


NE  being  a  poet,  yet  a  woman  too,  . 
Who  needs  most  yearn  for  lore  through  fame's  cold  days 

To  kiss  her  eyes  beneath  their  crown  of  praise, 
And  hold  her  hands  with  happy  words  that  woo  j 
Love  for  her  soul  to  lean  on  all  life  through, 

When  barren  and  sere  the  fair  world's  blossoming  ways, 

And  silent  as  some  dead  bird  her  heart's  glad  lays — 
Yet  walks  alone  unloved,  what  shall  she  do  P 

Lo  I  she  shall  find  a  lover  true  and  strong 
In  beggar  and  outcast,  and  all  sore  distrest, 
Whose  weary  heads  laid  on  her  aching  breast 
Shall  fill  her  heart  full,  like  a  cradle-song 
Crooned  o'er  a  first-born  babe.  She  doth  God.  wrong, 
Seeking  less  gifts  when  He  hath  giren  the  best  I 

...    I  •    ,  EVK^TK  £Y5R. 


Digitized  by 


Googk 


(    590    > 


IN  EVERLASTING  REMEMBRANCE ! 

IT  is  here  once  more — this  holy  and  consoling  month  which  the 
Church,  in  her  maternal  tenderness,  has  dedicated  to  our 
dead.  She,  who  received  them  at  their  birth,  who  watched  over 
them  with  such  unceasing  care  during  their  life,  who  soothed  and 
sustained  them  in  their  dying  moments,  does  not  abandon  her 
children  when  they  leave  this  world.  No,  she  clasps  them  still  in  her 
wide  embrace,  and  her  loving  voice  pleads  for  them  beyond  the 
grave :  "  Lord,  have  mercy  on  them — give  them  eternal  rest !  " 
All  over  the  world,  wherever  she  uplifts  her  standard,  there  also 
do  prayers  ascend  to  Heaven  for  the  souls  of  the  departed.  And 
as  a  tender  mother  is  not  content  with  watching  herself  over  the 
slumbers  of  her  child,  but  raises  a  warning  finger  to  call  the 
attention  of  those  who  approach,  that  its  rest  may  be  undisturbed, 
so  does  the  Church  desire  all  to  joinjwith  her  in  procuring  for  these, 
her  sleeping  children,  peaceful,  unbroken  rest  in  the  bosom  of 
their  God.  Constantly  does  she  remind  us  of  them,  continually 
does  she  invite  us  to  pray  for  them,  innumerable  are  the  indul- 
gences which  she  empowers  us  to  apply  to  them.  That  wondrous 
treasury  of  hers  is  open  wide  to  us,  and  by  every  means  in  her 
power  does  this  faithful  mother  encourage  us  to  impart  its  riches 
to  the  departed.  Ah  me !  that  we  should  need  such  encourage- 
ment— that  we  should  not  of  ourselves  hasten  to  their  relief.  Is 
it  possible  that  we  forget  that  these  "  poor  souls  "  are  also  our  dead, 
and  that  we  are  bound  to  assist  them  in  oommon  gratitude  for  the 
love  they  bore  us  in  life  P  Have  we  not  all  someone  that  was  once 
dear  to  us  amongst  their  number,  and  alas !  as  the  years  go  by,  is 
not  the  list  ever  lengthening,  are  not  our  prayer-books  more  and 
more  interleaved  with  black-edged  mementoes  of  those  that  have 
••  gone  before P  n  "Do  not  forget  us,"  they  seem  to  say,  and  yet 
the  saddest  thing  in  the  whole  world  is  the  way  in  which  the  dead 
are  forgotten.  Not  intentionally,  for  few  people  could  be  so  hard 
of  heart  as  to  be  wilfully  cruel  to  these  helpless  souls ;  but  little 
by  little,  and  almost  insensibly,  the  dead  seem  to  slip  from  the 
memory  of  the  living.  Those,  who,  in  the  first  agony  of  loss, 
prayed  so  fervently,  whose  sole  comfort  in  their  first  keen  grief 
was  the  consciousness  of  the  help  that  God  permits  us  in  his 

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In  Everlasting  Remembrance.  681 

mercy  to  afford  our  lost  ones — alter  a  lew  years  seem  to  tire  of 
their  devotion*  One  by  one  the  Masses,  the  rosaries,  the  constant 
aspirations  are  given  up,  and  people  when  they  think  of  their 
•dead,  tell  themselves  that  they  need  prayers  no  longer — "They 
are  in  Heaven  1 " 

In  Heaven !  When  perhaps  they  are  languishing  in  unspeak- 
able anguish  far  from  the  throne  of  God,  needing  our  help  most 
sorely,  or  hovering  on  the  very  threshold  of  that  prison  from 
which  one  fervent  prayer  might  set  them  free — and  the  help  is 
denied,  and  the  prayer  is  unspoken  because  tee  think  they  are  no 
longer  needed.  Oh,  the  folly  and  cruelty  of  it !  Who  are  we  that 
we  should  set  ourselves  up  as  judges  of  our  fellows,  entitled  to 
portion  out  to  them  their  meed  of  punishment  P  We,  who  are 
-such  mysteries  to  each  other,  who  can  no  more  fathom  each  other's 
hearts  than  we  can  sound  the  depths  of  the  ocean.  What  does  the 
mother  know  of  the  hidden  thoughts,  the  inner  life,  of  the  child 
that  she  bore,  that  was  cradled  on  her  breast,  whose  very  life 
appeared  to  depend  on  hers  P  Long,  long  before  he  reaches  man- 
hood, his  heart  is  a  sealed  book  to  her,  and  she  knows  of  the  work- 
ings of  his  mind  but  just  so  much  as  he  chooses  to  reveal.  Nay, 
are  we  not  mysteries  to  ourselves  P  How  blindly  and  ignorantly  do 
we  stumble  along  the  narrow  road.  It  is  not  given  to  us  to  know 
what  progress  we  make  in  good — to  realise  the  extent  of  the  evil 
that  we  do,  the  magnitude  of  the  injury  to  God,  of  the  harm 
to  ourselves ;  and  do  we  dare  to  judge  the  souls  of  one  another  P 

Oh !  if  our  dear  departed  were  good  and  faithful,  let  us  thank 
Ood  for  it,  but  let  us  not  cease  our  prayers.  We  have  the  con- 
solation of  believing  them  to  be  in  Heaven,  but  till  we  ourselves 
are  called  away,  and  all  things  are  made  clear  to  us,  we  can  never  be 
absolutely  certain.  While  there  is  a  doubt  of  their  perfect  happi- 
ness, is  it  not  a  cruel  thing  to  refuse  the  help  they  still  perchance 
may  need  P  When,  while  they  were  yet  amongst  us  in  the  flesh, 
they  were  in  suffering,  is  there  anything  we  would  not  have  done 
to  relieve  them  P  If  there  was  a  chance,  a  possibility  of  any  effort 
of  ours  alleviating  their  pain,  could  we  have  refused  it  P  Ah  me ! 
if  we  were  to  see  them  now,  in  bodily  shape,  stretching  forth  eager 
hands  to  us,  pleading  with  sorrowful  voice— could  they  appeal  to 
us  in  vainP  We  know  that  would  not  be  possible,  and  yet  what 
was  it  we  loved  in  them — the  voice  that  is  silent  now — the  hands 
that  will  never  clasp  us  more  on  this  side  of  Heaven  P  Was  it 
not  rather  that  other  intangible  self,  the  spirit  by  which  they 
were  animated,  the  soul  that  made  them  what  they  were  P  It  was 

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692  In  Everlasting  Remembrance. 

that  to  which  we  were  so  oloeely  united,  and  to  that  we  can  be 
united  still.  Is  our  love  so  poor  a  thing  that  it  cannot  follow 
beyond  the  grave  P  Can  we  not  be  generous  enough,  faithful  enough 
to  give  our  help  ungrudgingly?  For  how  long — ten  years — 
twenty  years  ?  Oh,  life  is  too  short  to  make  such  bargains !  If 
our  dear  ones  were  taken  from  us  long  ago,  so  much  the  more 
reason  to  pray  fervently  for  them  now,  in  case  they  still  may  need 
our  help.  What  a  terrible  thing  it  would  be  if  after  all  these 
years,  they  were  still  in  banishment,  and  that  we  did  not  assist 
them.  Let  us  not  be  niggardly  in  such  a  matter  as  this,  but  pray 
on — pray  always,  till  our  own  turn  comes,  and  we  want  prayers  our- 
selves. Our  prayers  are  not  lost,  even  if  our  dead  no  longer  need 
them — they  pass  through  their  hands,  as  it  were,  to  the  Heart  of 
Jesus,  and  thence  bring  comfort  and  refreshment  to  other  poor  souls, 
who  want  them  still. 

The  example  of  the  saints  should  encourage  us,  for  we  may 
see  by  studying  their  lives, how  pleasing  to  Godisthedevoutremem- 
brance  of  the  departed,  St.  Elizabeth  of  Hungary,  notwithstand- 
ing the  marked  sanctity  of  her  husband,  and  the  almost  miraculous 
circumstances  which  attended  his  death,  did  not  consider  herself 
exempt  from  this  duty,  but  gave  active  proof  that  her  love  and 
fidelity  did  not  cease  with  his  life.  "  I  would  be  grateful  to  my 
brother-in-law,"  she  said,  "if  he  would  give  me  what  is  due 
of  my  dowry  in  order  to  defray  the  expenses  of  what  I 
wish  to  do  for  the  salvation  of  my  own  soul,  and  the  repose 
of  that  of  my  beloved  husband ! "  Our  Lord  Himself  assured 
St.  Gertrude  that  her  devotion  to  the  souls  in  Purgatory 
was  most  pleasing  to  Him.  Blessed  Margaret  Mary  exhausted 
herself  in  prayers  and  penances  in  their  behalf.  All  of  God's 
saints,  in  fact,  were  remarkable  for  their  compassion  to  their 
departed  brethren.  We  read  that  they  did  not  content  themselves 
with  a  general  devotion  to  the  holy  souls,  but  considered  them- 
selves particularly  bound  to  assist  those  who  were  closely  united 
to  them  on  earth. 

This  is  the  spirit  of  the  Church.  She  who  so  carefully  fosters  all 
true  and  holy  affections,  would  not  have  them  endure  only  for 
time.  In  truth,  to  her  this  life  is  but  a  transitory  thing,  important 
only  inasmuch  as  it  regards  that  great  eternal  future  on  which  her 
eyes  are  ever  fixed.  "  The  just  shall  live  in  everlasting  remem- 
brance/9 she  tells  us,  and  lest  by  any  possibility  we  should  mistake 
her  meaning,  she  makes  use  of  these  words  in  Masses  for  the 
Dead. 

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In  Everlasting  Remembrance.  69$ 

Oh !  shame  on  us  for  our  callousness  and  indifference,  if  indeed 
we  understand  these  things,  and  yet  hold  back.  If  we  would 
only  take  the  trouble  to  look  into  the  matter,  we  should  see  at 
how  small  a  cost  we  can  achieve  so  great  a  work — for  is  not 
that  a  great  work,  which,  at  one  and  the  same  time,  gives  glory  to 
God,  rest  to  the  departed,  and  profit  to  ourselves  P 

Would  it  take  a  moment  to  add  to  the  morning  offering  a 
specified  intention  of  applying  all  the  indulgences  we  can  possibly 
gain  throughout  the  day  to  these  dear  souls  P  An  aspiration  now 
and  then  would  only  cost  the  thought  of  an  instant.  As  for 
prayers,  after  all,  we  are  all  bound  to  say  prayers  of  some  sort — 
why  not  select  those  that  will  benefit  our  suffering  brethren  as 
well  as  ourselves  P  The  rosary,  for  instance,  under  certain  condi- 
tions, becomes  in  our  hands  an  instrument  of  inconceivable  power 
for  their  relief.  Our  everyday  actions  performed  with  a  right 
intention  would  cause  our  whole  lives  to  be,  as  it  were,  one  tissue  of 
prayer.  The  crosses  that  come  to  us  at  every  turn,  and  that  we 
are  bound  to  carry,  whether  we  will  or  no — well,  let  us  take  them 
up  bravely,  sacrificing  the  murmurs  which  rise  to  our  lips  to  those 
silent,  uncomplaining  souls  who  await  their  deliverance  so  patiently. 
The  Communions  which  help  us  as  nothing  else  oan — why  should 
they  not  help  them  too  P  Then  the  confraternities  with  which  we 
are  surrounded — notably  the  Apostleship  of  Prayer,  which  is  so 
rich  in  indulgences,  and  the  duties  of  which  are  so  easy ;  and  the 
Arch-Confraternity  of  our  Lady  of  Suffrage,  established  solely  for 
the  assistance  of  the  souls  in  Purgatory — surely,  we  might  each 
select  one  of  these,  and  keep  to  it  aU  our  lives  through.  It  is  not 
much  to  undertake  for  the  sake  of  these  loved  ones  of  ours.  When 
they  were  amongst  us  they  exacted  more  of  us,  and  we  had  no 
thought  of  complaint.  Though  we  may  be  much  occupied,  we 
should  still  remember  the  duty  which  we  owe  our  dead.  For,  if 
they  had  claims  on  us  in  life,  have  they  not  greater  claims  now — 
a  thousand  times — for  they  cannot  help  themselves  P  All  the  world 
over,  this  month,  a  cry  fgoes  up  to  Heaven — a  cry  of  petition 
for  the  loved  and  lost.  Shall  we  not  suffer  it  to  echo  in  our  hearts, 
waking  up  forgotten  emotions  and  slumbering  love?  And 
listening  to  that  mighty  cry,  shall  not  we  join  in  also  pleading  with 
all  our  strength :  "  Lord,  we  too  have  dear  ones  to  recommend  to 
Thee  I  Look  upon  them,  be  merciful  to  them,  and  suffer  them  to 
see  Thy  Face !  " 

M.B. 


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ALL  SAINTS. 

TO-DAY,  in  the  Church's  Office,  heaven's  gate  has  been  set  ajar. 
And  music  from  mystical  harps  and  flutes  spreads  out  on  the  winds  afar  j 
And  now  and  again  faint  glimpses  of  glory  that  lies  beyond 
Come  to  fill  our  hearts  with  a  longing  keen,  till  they  to  esch  chord  respond. 

For  sweeter  than  earthly  music,  the  notes  as  they  float  along, 

.Now  soft  like  the  music  we  hear  in  dreams,  now  strong  in  triumphant  song, 

And  shadows  of  saintly  figures  an  instant  before  us  rise, 

Half  gleaned  from  the  pages  of  sacred  lore,  half  imaged  by  fancy's  eyes. 

For  there — by  the  sea  of  crystal,  we  see,  or  we  seem  to  see, 
The  radiant  forme  of  the  martyr  throng,  with  their  palms  of  victory  ; 
•Saints  of  all  climes,  who  lived  their  lives  for  heaven's  immortal  King ; 
And  the  white-robed  train  of  the  virgin  choir,  with  their  song  none  else  can 
sing. 

And  tier  upon  tier  of  angels  keep  guard  round  the  mighty  throne 
"Where  the  beautiful  Queen  of  Mercy  reigns,  none  higher  save  God  alone. 
Her  smile,  like  descending  sunlight,  can  pierce  through  despair's  abyss, 
And  her  children  feel  all  its  sweetness  now,  in  her  own  dear  realm  of  bliss. 

But  who  can  tell  of  the  splendour,  the  loveliness  increate 

Of  the  Triune  God  whom  the  heaven  of  heavens  displays  in  His  regal  state  f 

Or  speak  of  the  streams  of  glory,  from  the  five  dear  Wounds  of  love, 

Like  the  sun  at  noon,  only  more  divine,  for  "  the  Lamb  is  the  Light  above  P  " 

But,  some  day,  oh  some  day  surely,  our  eyes  on  that  light  shall  gaze, 
When  our  feet  are  for  evermore  set  free  from  life's  bewildering  maze ; 
And  meantime  our  prayers  shall  hasten  the  day  when  o'er  wind  and  tide 
Shall  be  borne  the  voices  of  those  who  sing  for  the  Bridegroom  and  the  Bride ! 

Sister  Mary  Agnrs. 


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LEIBNITZ. 

Part  III. 

By  the  latb  Very  Rev.  C.  W.  Russell,  D.D. 

From  Venice  he  proceeded  towards  Rome,  by  slow  stages,  halt- 
ing at  every  city  which  appeared  of  any  importance  either  for  its 
own  sake  or  for  the  purposes  of  his  historical  inquiry :  so  that  he 
did  not  reach  Rome  till  the  October  of  the  same  year.  His  arrival 
occurred  in  the  first  months  of  the  pontificate  of  the  enlightened 
Pope,  Alexander  VIII.,  to  whom,  as  well  as  to  all  the  leading 
members  of  the  Roman  Court,  he  was  already  well  and  favourably 
known  by  reputation.  Although  his  correspondence  with  Bossuet 
had  not  then  commenced,  yet  his  intercourse  with  other  Catholics 
— as  with  the  Elector  of  Hanover,  John  Frederic,  and  the  Land- 
grave of  Hesse  Rheinf  els  (both  converts  to  the  Roman  Catholic 
Church)  with  Steno,  the  Vicar  Apostolic  at  Hanover,  with  Arnaud# 
Pelisson,  Huet,  and  many  others — had  created  for  him  the  reputa- 
tion, not  alone  of  great  liberality  in  his  views  regarding  Catholics 
personally,  but  even  of  a  strong  tendency  towards  the  Catholic 
religion.  His  reception  at  Rome,  therefore,  was  of  the  friendliest 
and  most  gratifying  description ;  and  it  would  even  appear  that 
offers  of  a  very  tempting  kind  were  made  to  him,  provided  he 
should  consent  to  embrace  the  Catholic  religion.  "  You  are  aware/' 
he  wrote  long  afterwards  to  the  Abbe  Thorel,  on  occasion  of  a  simi- 
lar offer  made  to  him  from  Paris,  "  You  are  aware  that  there  is  a 
condition  attached  to  the  offer,  which  renders  its  acceptance 
impossible  to  me.  And,  to  make  this  plain  to  you,  I  need  only 
mention  that  I  long  since  declined  the  offer,  on  similar  terms,  of 
the  Librarianship  of  the  Vatican,  from  which  one  usually  advances 
to  the  Cardinalate,  as  has  just  occurred  in  the  case  of  Cardinal 
Noris.  But  this  is  for  yourself  only  ;  for,  although  I  have  in  my 
possession  documentary  proof  of  the  offer,  I  do  not  wish  to  give 
it  publicity." 

In  addition  to  the  historic  researches  which  formed  the  main 
object  of  his  visit  to  Rome,  Leibnitz  found  in  that  city  abundant 
opportunity  of  cultivating  his  favourite  sciences.  Through  the 
friendship  of  the  celebrated  astronomer,  Ciampini,  he  was  intro- 

Digitized  by  vjUUV  Lv, 


596  Leibnitz. 

duced  to  the  members  of  the  Academia  Fisico-Mathematica,  with, 
many  of  whom  he  long  afterwards  continued  to  maintain  corres- 
pondence. But  probably  the  most  interesting  acquaintance  which 
he  formed  during  his  stay,  and  that  to  which  he  himself  recurs 
the  most  frequently  and  with  the  greatest  appearance  of  pleasure,, 
was  that  of  the  Jesuit,  Father  Grimaldi,  for  many  years  a  mission- 
ary in  China.  The  accounts  which  he  received  from  Grimaldi  of' 
the  philosophy,  the  literature,  and  the  social  condition  of  this- 
singular  people  interested  him  in  the  highest  degree,  and  furnished 
him  with  materials  for  many  disquisitions  on  the  subject,  which 
appear  in  his  subsequent  publications.  One  of  these — a  sketch  of 
the  then  Emperor,  Cham-Ki,  which  Leibnitz  derived  from  the 
Jesuit  Father — presents  him  in  a  curious  and  most  favourable  con- 
trast with  the  degenerate  occupants  of  the  "  celestial  throne  "  in 
later  times.  "Not  to  dwell/'  says  he,  in  the  Preface  of  his- 
Nomsima  Sinica,  published  in  the  year  1697,  "  on  his  love  of 
justice,  his  paternal  tenderness  to  his  subjects,  his  moderation  of 
character  and  temperate  habit  of  life,  Grimaldi  told  me  that  hi* 
love  of  learning  and  thirst  for  knowledge  almost  exceed  all  belief* 
Adored  as  he  may  almost  be  said  to  be  even  by  his  own  family  and 
by  all  the  magnates  of  the  Empire,  he  wpuld  nevertheless  spend 
three  or  four  hours  every  day  with  Father  Yerbiest,  in  his  palace, 
poring  over  books  and  instruments ;  and  he  made  such  progress- 
under  his  tuition  as  to  master  the  Elements  of  Euclid  and  the  appli- 
cation of  Practical  Trigonometry  to  the  calculation  of  the  orbits  and 
motions  of  the  heavenly  bodies/9  It  is  worthy  of  note,  that,  in. 
the  disputes  on  the  lawfulness  of  tolerating  certain  ceremonies  and 
observances  among  the  Christian  proselytes  in  China,  which  arose 
between  the  Jesuits  and  other  Roman  Catholic  Missionaries  in  that 
country,  Leibnitz  warmly  embraced  the  Jesuit  side  of  the  con- 
troversy. 

It  will  easily  be  believed,  too,  that,  for  a  mind  like  his,  the 
antiquities  of  Rome,  aa  well  as  the  wonders  of  modern  art  which 
it  possesses,  had  a  powerful  charm.  Every  hour  which  he  could 
snatch  from  his  researches  in  the  Vatican  and  the  Barberini 
libraries,  was  devoted  to  those  more  attractive  repositories..  A. 
very  interesting  toootiftt  is  given,  by  his  most  recent  biographer,. 
Dr.  Guhraner,  of  his  antiquarian  explorations,  especially  of  the- 
sacred  antiquities  of  Rome,  the  Catacombs,  the  Christian  museums,. 
&c,  under  the  direction  of  the  celebrated  Raphael  Fabretti,  at 
that  time  Secretary  of  the  Pope  Alexander  YllL  To  these 
Leibnitz  himself  more  than  once  recurs  in  his  letters. 

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Leibnitz.  697 

After  a  short  excursion  to  Naples,  He  returned  to  Borne,  and 
thence  proceeded  to  Florence,  where  he  was  most  warmly  received 
%y  his  old  friend  and  correspondent,  Magliabeochi,  and  by  the 
-distinguished  mathematician,  Viviani.  In  Bologna,  he  made  the 
acquaintance  of  Domenico  Ghilielmini,  the  well-known  chemist, 
•and  of  Malpighi,  the  most  distinguished  anatomist  and  physiologist 
of  his  age.  But  his  most  valuable  successes  lay  in  Modena  where 
his  researches  satisfactorily  resolved,  by  the  clearest  evidence,  the 
4ong- vexed  question  of  the  descent  of  the  House  of  Brunswick 
from  the  Este  family.  Of  these  important  discoveries  he  gave  an 
•account  in  his  letters  to  the  Duke  and  Duchess  of  Hanover,  written 
before  he  left  Modena.  True  to  his  old  love  for  the  society  of  men  of 
-science,  he  took  advantage  of  his  visit  to  Modena  to  make  the 
acquaintance  of  Ramazzini ;  at  Padua  he  was  presented  to  Spoleto 
'(the  most  eminent  of  Borelli's  pupils)  ;  and  at  Venice  to  Andreini, 
through  whose  friendly  offices  he  was  received  with  marked  dis- 
tinction by  all  the  notabilities  of  the  Republic.  It  was  from  this 
last-named  city  that  he  wrote  the  long  and  elaborate  letter  to 
Anthony  Arnaud  (recently.published  by  Dr.  Guhraner),  one  of  the 
noblest  monuments  of  his  genius,  and  an  evidence  of  profound  and 
-varied  talent  for  which  there  are  few  parallels  to  be  found,  whether 
'in  modern  or  in  ancient  literature.  In  this  letter  he  speaks  with 
great  satisfaction  of  the?  tour  which  he  was  then  bringing  to  a 
-close.  "  As  this  tour,"  he  writes,  "  has  served  in  part  to  draw  me 
from  my  ordinary  occupations  and  to  recruit  my  mind  after  its 
labours,  so  it  has  brought  me  the  additional  pleasure  of  familiar 
■and  frequent  intercourse  with  men  eminent  in  science  and  in  litera- 
ture. To  many  of  these  I  have  communicated  those  views  with 
which  you  are  acquainted,  in  order  to  derive  instruction  from  the 
•doubts  or  difficulties  which  they  might  suggest.  Several  of  them, 
♦dissatisfied  with  the  doctrines  commonly  received,  have  declared 
•their  warm  approval  of  these  views  of  mine." 

From  Venice  he  returned  by  the  route  of  Vienna,  and  arrived 
*at  Hanover  in  June,  1690,  after  an  absence  of  about  two  years  and 
a-half .  His  home  was  a  solitary  one.  We  have  already  seen  that 
he  had  no  ties  of  kindred  and  he  had  never  married.  His  tempera- 
ment, indeed,  appears  to  have  been  far  from  warm.  Although  he 
•lived  on  terms  of  intimate  intercourse  with  many,  few  of  his 
intimacies  were  of  that  genial  character  which  deserves  the  name 
of  friendship.  And,  as  regards  any  more  tender  sentiment, 
.although  he  seems  more  than  once  to  have  entertained  the  idea  of 
onarrying,  yet  in  every  case  the  intention  was  entertained  as  a 

Digitized  by  vjUUV  Lv, 


598  Leibnitz. 

matter  of  convenience  rather  than  of  affection.  He  used  to  say 
that  "  marriage  was  a  very  excellent  state,  but  one  on  which  a 
wise  man  ought  to  reflect  for  his  whole  life."  In  one  instance  he 
was  brought  so  far  as  actually  to  make  a  proposal  of  marriage  ; 
but,  on  the  lady's  asking  time  to  consider  the  offer,  his  habitual 
coldness  returned,  and,  before  she  had  made  up  her  mind,  his 
inclination  had  passed  away  ! 

Perhaps,  indeed,  his  life  was  too  busy  to  allow  time  for  matri- 
monial speculations.  Not  a  moment  was  unoccupied.  "It  is 
impossible  for  me,"  he  writes  about  this  period  to  one  of  his  friends, 
Placcius,  Professor  at  Hamburg,  "  to  give  you  an  idea  of  all  the 
claims  upon  my  time.  I  have  to  search  out  odds  and  ends  in  the 
archives,  to  examine  old  documents,  and  to  decipher  and  collate 
manuscripts,  in  reference  to  the  history  of  the  House  of  Brunswick. 
I  am  constantly  receiving  and  answering  an  enormous  quantity  of 
letters.  I  have,  besides,  so  many  new  things  on  my  hands  in 
mathematics,  so  many  speculations  in  philosophy,  so  many  other 
literary  projects  of  which  I  cannot  suffer  myself  to  lose  sight,  that 
I  am  often  a  loss  where  to  turn  first,  and  feel  very  sensibly  the 
truth  of  the  exclamation  in  Ovid :  '  Inopem  me  copia  fecit.'*  It  is 
more  than  twenty  years  since  my  calculating  machine  was  exhibited 
to  the  scientific  men  of  France  and  England.  Since  that  time,  I 
have  been  beset  with  importunities  from  Oldenburg,  Huygens,  and 
Arnaud,  both  in  person  and  by  friends,  to  publish  a  description  of 
its  mechanism ;  but  I  have  always  been  forced  to  defer  it,  because 
I  have  only  had  time  to  make  a  small  model  of  the  machine, 
sufficient  to  make  it  intelligible  to  a  mechanician,  but  not  for 
practical  use.  I  have  at  last  succeeded,  by  calling  in  the  assistance 
of  mechanics,  in  getting  it  so  far  into  working  order  as  to  execute 
multiplications  to  the  extent  of  twelve  figures.  It  is  a  year  since 
I  advanced  it  to  this  stage ;  but,  ever  since,  the  workmen  have 
been  engaged  in  making  similar  machines  which  have  been  called 
for  in  various  places ;  and,  although  I  should  be  very  glad  to  - 
publish  a  description  of  it,  I  really  have  not  time  for  the  purpose. 
Again,  I  am  most  anxious  to  finish  my  treatise  on  Dynamics, 
in  which  I  hope  to  show  that  I  have  at  last  discovered  and  explained 
the  true  laws  of  Material  Nature,  and  to  solve  problems  unapproach- 
able by  any  of  the  rules  hitherto  known.  My  friends,  too,  who 
are  acquainted  with  the  higher  school  of  geometrical  study,  of 
which  I  have  laid  the  foundation,  are  constantly  urging  me  to  • 

*  "Overflowing  wealth  had  made  me  poor." 

Digitized  by  GoOgle 


Leibnitz.  59£ 

publish  my  Theory  of  Infinities,  which  contains  the  fundamental 
principles  of  my  new  Analysis.  Besides  these,  there  are  many 
other  novelties  in  science  on  which  I  have  been  engaged.  And  all 
these  studies,  except  my  historical  ones,  are  practised  as  it  were  by 
stealth.  For  you  know  that,  in  a  Court,  they  look  for  and  expect 
from  one  services  of  a  totally  different  character.  Thus,  I  have 
from  time  to  time  to  discuss  points  of  international  and  imperial,, 
and  still  more  of  territorial  law :  although,  through  the  Puke's 
considerate  kindness,  I  have  been  exempted  from  attendance  at  all 
private  judicial  processes.  Besides  all  this,  I  have  often  been 
obliged  to  take  a  part  in  religious  controversies  with  the  Bishop  of 
Neustadt  and  the  Bishop  of  Meaux,  as  well  as  with  M.  Pelisson 
and  others ;  and  my  labours  in  this  department  have  been  con- 
sidered not  unworthy  the  notice  of  very  eminent  theologians.  I 
can  hardly  tell  you  what  a  mass  of  letters  and  minor  essays  (which 
neither  have  been  published  nor  are  meant  for  publication)  these 
engagements  have  thrown  upon  me/' 

This  explanation  is  offered  by  Leibnitz  as  some  apology  for 
the  delay  of  his  long-promised  strictures  upon  a  work  which 
Placcius  had  submitted  to  his  judgment  before  publication. 

His  biographer,  Guhraner,  goes  even  farther  in  this  detail  of 
his  occupations.  After  his  return,  he  was  beset  more  than  ever 
with  constant  and  importunate  correspondence  on  scientific  subjects 
from  England  and  France,  as  well  as  from  Germany  and  Italy ;  for 
his  recent  tour  in  that  country,  by  bringing  him  into  relation  with 
the  learned  societies  of  all  its  leading  cities,  added  a  further  and 
very  considerable  item  to  these  demands  upon  his  time.  His  philo- 
sophical studies,  too,  were  by  no  means  confined  to  abstract  theory. 
He  was  a  zealous  and  indefatigable  experimentalist,  and  possessed 
a  very  extensive  philosophical  apparatus,  to  which  he  was  constantly 
adding  everything  novel  or  interesting,  of  which  he  chanced  to 
receive  information. 

"  When  you  think  of  all  these  things,'9  he  writes  to  Maglia- 
becchi,  apologizing  for  some  delay  in  his  correspondence,  "  you 
will,  I  hope,  have  the  charity  to  pardon  my  procrastination,  and 
will  join  with  me  in  wishing  that  I  could  procure  the  services  of 
one  or  two  able  assistants,  with  sufficient  learning,  ability,  and 
industry  to  aid  me  in  carrying  out  the  details  of  the  work  which 
lies  before  me.  I  find  it  easy  to  project :  but  it  is  entirely  out  of 
my  own  power  to  carry  out  all  my  plans ;  and  I  would  gladly 
transfer  to  others  many  of  these  plans,  from  which  they  might 
perhaps  draw  some  advantage  to  their  personal  reputation,  to  the 

Digitized  by  vjUUV  I  v. 


<500  Leibnitz. 

-common  interests  of  mankind,   it  may  be,  and  even  to  God's 
greater  glory." 

About  this  time  appeared  in  England  Locke's  great  work,  the 
Essay  on  the  Human  Understanding.  It  was  the  invariable  custom 
of  Leibnitz  to  commit  to  paper  whatever  observations  occurred  to 
him  with  regard  to  every  new  work  of  merit  which  fell  in  his  way ; 
and  he  transmitted,  through  his  friend  Burnet  to  Locke,  a  paper  of 
"  Reflexions  sur  l'Essai  de  l'Entendement  Humain  de  M.  Locke  " 
upon  this  plan,  which  was  afterwards  published  among  the  posthu- 
mous works  of  that  author.  Some  years  later,  in  1703,  he  resumed 
the  subject,  and  composed  what  he  called  "  Nouveaux  Essais  sur 
l'Entendement  Humain,"  with  the  intention  of  publishing  them 
as  a  reply  to  Locke ;  but,  on  the  death  of  Locke  in  the  following 
year,  he  abandoned  the  idea  of  publication  upon  the  grounds  that 
"he  did  not  like  controversies  with  dead  men ;  "  and  (as  occurred 
with  most  of  his  projects  when  the  immediate  motive  of  them 
•ceased),  the  work  unhappily  remained  unpublished,  although  it 
was  published  after  his  death  with  all  its  defects  and  imperfections. 
The  main  points  of  his  controversy  with  Locke  will  be  detailed 
hereafter. 

It  would  be  a  great  mistake  to  suppose,  nevertheless,  that,  while 
his  mind  and  pen  were  thus  constantly  employed,  the  life  of 
Leibnitz  was  that  of  a  scholar  or  a  recluse.  On  the  contrary,  he 
mixed  freely  and  frequently  in  society.  He  received  repeated 
invitations  to  almost  every  Court  of  Germany.  At  his  own, 
he  was  a  constant  and  most  honoured  visitant,  the  Duke  treated 
him  with  the  most  marked  confidence,  and  he  enjoyed  in  the 
highest  degree  the  esteem  and  friendship  of  the  Duchess  Sophia. 
This  amiable  lady  was  the  daughter  of  the  Princess  Palatine, 
Elizabeth,  daughter  of  James  I.,  and  the  foundress  of  the  present 
royal  line  of  England.  Without  any  pretensions  to  the  energy 
and  brilliant  qualities  of  her  elder  sister,  Elizabeth,  the  pupil  of 
Descartes,  she  was,  nevertheless,  one  of  the  most  accomplished 
princesses  of  her  age.  She  wrote  Latin  with  much  elegance ;  she 
-spoke  several  languages  fluently  and  correctly ;  and  was  familiar 
not  only  with  the  lighter  literature  of  the  time  but  with  most  of 
the  prevailing  topics  of  the  current  philosophical  and  theological 
learning.  Her  younger  sister,  who  had  embraced  the  Catholic 
religion  and  was  Superioress  of  the  Royal  Abbey  of  Maubuisson, 
in  the  Diocese  of  Paris,  was  the  centre  of  one  of  those  brilliant, 
half -literary,  half  religious  circles  which  were  so  numerous  in  the 
Court  of  Louis  XIY. ;  another  correspondence  kept  the  Duchess 

Digitized  by  VJUUV  I  v. 


Leibnitz.  601 

Sophia  au  courant  with  all  the  best  and  highest  literature  of  France. 
In  the  numerous  questions  which  arose  out  of  this,  Leibnitz  was 
ever  the  oracle  of  the  Duchess.  During  his  actual  residence  at 
Hanover,  he  was  in  constant  communication  with  her.  His  frequent 
absences  only  changed  their  intercourse  from  personal  communica- 
tion to  correspondence.  The  tone  of  her  address  to  him  is  most 
affectionate  and  confidential.  In  one  of  her  letters  (Feb.  24, 1690) , 
she  does  not  hesitate  to  avow  that  she  "prizes  his  New  Year's 
greeting  more  than  those  of  her  royal  correspondents/1  In  another 
(Nov.  5,  1701),  she  confesses  that  her  object  in  writing  is  merely 
to  draw  forth  his  replies ;  and  it  is  clear,  as  well  from  the  topics 
on  which  she  writes,  as  from  the  unreservedness  of  the  letters 
themselves,  that  his  correspondence  was  to  her  not  merely  a  source 
of  literary  enjoyment,  but  the  genuine  outpouring  of  a  cordial  and 
trustful  friendship.  She  freely  confides  to  him  all  her  private  pro- 
jects and  hopes.  "  I  wish  to  let  you  see,'9  she  writes  to  him,  while 
he  was  residing  at  Modena,  "  how  highly  I  value  your  friendship. 
If  you  can  succeed  in  making  over  one  of  our  young  princesses  to 
the  Duke  of  Modena  as  a  New  Year's  gift,  you  will  confer  a  great 
pleasure  on  this  House.  The  Duke  has  akpady  made  the  attempt 
through  the  agency  of  the  Conte  Dragoni,  who,  however,  has  had 
but  very  poor  success.  Perhaps  you  may  succeed  better.  I  shall 
be  very  glad  to  learn  that  you  have  done  so.  But,  in  any  event, 
I  hope  I  shall  see  you  home,  safe  and  sound,  once  again  this  spring, 
to  bear  me  company  during  the  Duke's  absence  with  the  army." 
And,  in  a  playful  postscript,  she  adds:  "your  library  has  been 
turned  for  the  nonce  into  a  theatre,  in  which  they  are  acting  the 
prettiest  operas  in  the  world.  Signor  Hortensio  [Hortensio  Mauro, 
the  Duke's  poet-laureate]  writes  the  text,  and  Signor  Steffani,  who 
is  in  the  Elector  of  Bavaria's  service,  composes  the  music.  So  that 
you  see  the  French  have  not  quite  burned  us  out  of  house  as  yet." 
Our  fair  readers,  however,  would  hardly  be  prepared,  from  this 
and  many  similar  letters,  for  the  grave  and  profound  speculations 
which  formed  the  subject  of  many  others  among  the  Duchess's 
communications.  It  would  appear  that  her  tastes  in  philosophy 
leaned  towards  most  abstruse  and  mysterious  subjects ;  and  she 
delighted  in  witnessing  and  occasionally  sharing  the  learned  dis- 
cussions of  the  divines  and  philosophers  of  her  Court.  On  all  the 
doubtful  or  difficult  points  which  arose,  Leibnitz  was  her  unfail- 
ing tribunal  of  reference :  and  there  is  preserved  among  his  cor- 
respondence a  very  amusing  letter  from  one  of  the  most  distin- 
guished of  the  Lutheran  Divines  of  Hanover,  Gerard  Molanus,  in 
Vol,  xiy.  No.  161.  44   ^n\c 

Digitized  by  VJVJUV  LV^ 


602  Leibnits. 

which  the  latter  forewarns  him  of  the  Duchess's  intention  of  refer- 
ring for  his  judgment  a  controversy  in  which  Molanus  had  taken 
part,  and  conjures  him  by  all,  the  memories  of  their  old  friend- 
ship, although  he  is  conscious  of  having  been  in  the  wrong,  "  not 
to  ruin  his  reputation  with  the  Duchess  by  deciding  the  point  against 
him." 

These  details  will  appear  the  more  curious,  when  it  is  considered 
that  it  was  during  these  busy  years  and  in  the  midst  of  these  dis- 
tracting labours  and  still  more  distracting  social  and  official  engage- 
ments, that  he  found  time  to  produce  his  most  profound  and  original 
works.  How  voluminous  these  works  are,  it  is  hardly  necessary  to 
tell.  Besides  the  various  collections  in  history,  antiquities,  and 
jurisprudence,  which  he  prepared  and  edited,  and  which  fill  many 
folio  volumes,  the  general  edition  of  his  works  by  Dutens,  consists 
of  six  massive  quartos ;  and  this  edition  does  not  include  either  his 
"Philosophical  Works"  in  Latin  and  French,  which  form  a 
separate  collection  edited  by  Eric,  or  his  "  German  Works  "  which 
have  been  recently  published  by  Dr.  Guhraner,  or  a  considerable 
supplement  of  his  correspondence,  collected  some  years  back  by 
Dr.  Grotefend,  or  a  variety  of  fugitive  pieces,  fragments,  and 
miscellanies,  partly  published  of  late  years,  partly  still  preserved 
in  manuscript  in  the  Royal  Library  of  Hanover,  but  all  exhibiting 
the  same  ability,  learning  and  research  which  formed  the  great 
characteristics  of  his  mind. 

Besides  these  regular  literary  occupations,  he  devoted  much 
thought  to  a  curious  scheme  for  a  "  universal  language  of  the 
learned,'9  which  he  devised  but  which  remained  unfinished  at  the 
time  of  his  death.  He  engaged  too,  so  far  back  as  1682,  with 
Otto  Mencke  in  the  publication  of  the  Acta  Eruditorum,  the 
Leipsig  journal  already  referred  to.  In  1691,  he  began,  moreover, 
to  contribute  to  the  Journal  des  Sawn*  with  which  he  continued 
ever  afterwards  to  maintain  a  connexion.  And  from  the  year 
1700,  we  have  to  add  a  third  to  the  list  of  these  editorial  responsi- 
bilities. In  that  year  he  commenced  the  publication  of  a  Monthly 
Review,  entitled  "  Monatlicher  Aus-zug  neuer  Biicher  "  [Monthly 
Extracts  of  New  Books],  of  which,  although  it  was  nominally 
under  the  editorship  of  Eckhard,  the  main  weight  fell  upon  himself. 
In  this  periodical  appeared  some  of  the  most  elegant  and  elaborate 
German  productions  of  his  pen. 

About  this  date,  however,  a  serious  change,  or  at  least  one 
destined  to  involve  serious  consequences,  had  come  over  his  fortunes. 
About  the  middle  of  1698,  his  friend  and  patron,  the  Duke  Ernest 

Digitized  by  VjOOQ  IC 


Leibnitz.  603 

Augustus  died.  He  was  succeeded  by  his  son,  George  Lewis, 
afterwards  G-eorge  I.  of  England.  Under  this  young  prince 
Leibnitz  continued,  as  far  as  met  the  public  eye,  to  retain  the  same 
"employments  and  to  enjoy  the  same  honours  which  had  been  his 
under  both  his  former  sovereigns.  But  it  seldom  happens  that  a 
crown  prince,  who  has  arrived  at  man's  estate  during  his  father's 
lifetime,  does  not  contrive  to  collect  about  him  a  party  of  men, 
and  to  become  the  centre  of  a  system  of  measures,  at  variance  with 
the  advisers  and  with  the  views  of  the  existing  dynasty  :  nor  does 
it  often  occur  that  those,  who  have  enjoyed  in  any  marked  degree 
the  confidence  of  the  father,  continue  to  possess  the  same  enviable 
relations  with  the  son.  It  was  so  found  by  -Leibnitz.  Without 
any  formal  withdrawal  whether  of  his  emoluments  and  honours  or 
of  the  outward  freedom  and  familiarity  of  intercourse  with  the 
prince  which  were  almost  equally  precious  in  his  eyes,  he  found 
iiimself  practically,  though  gradually,  estranged  from  the  "  inner 
life  "  of  the  Court ;  and,  though  we  afterwards  find  him  engaged 
-in  many  most  confidential  employments,  and  though  he  was  himself 
slow  to  recognise  the  gradual  fall  of  the  courtly  thermometer,  yet, 
from  the  very  date  of  Ernest  Augustus's  death,  there  are  quite 
enough  of  indications  to  prepare  us,  and  even  (had  he  read  them 
aright)  to  have  prepared  himself,  for  the  coldness  and  neglect 
'which  he  experienced  in  his  last  years,  and  especially  after  the 
•departure  of  his  sovereign  to  take  possession  of  his  English 
'throne. 

It  is  not  altogether  improbable,  perhaps,  that  we  may  trace  to 
a  secret  consciousness  of  this  change  a  movement  for  the  transfer 
of  Leibnitz  from  Hanover  to  Berlin,  which  took  place  soon  after- 
wards. A  plan  had  been  proposed  for  the  establishment  of  an 
Academy  of  Sciences  in  the  Prussian  capital,  on  which  his  advice 
was  solicited  and  into  which  he  entered  with  his  characteristic 
ardour  in  the  cause  of  science.  About  the  same  time  some  of  his 
iriends,  and  especially  Jablouski,  the  court  chaplain  at  Berlin, 
♦endeavoured  to  procure  for  him  the  appointment  of  Historiographer 
Royal  of  the  House  of  Brandenburg,  which  had  recently  become 
vacant  by  the  death  of  the  celebrated  jurist  and  historian,  Puffen- 
dorf  ,  and  to  which  a  considerable  income  was  attached.  From 
some  cause,  however,  which  is  not  explained,  the  negotiation  failed, 
and  the  place  was  given  to  a  very  inferior  candidate.  Leibnitz, 
however,  was  invited  to  Berlin  to  assist  in  the  establishment  and 
•organization  of  the  scientific  Academy.  His  arrival  occurred  in 
-the  very  midst  of  the  festivities  given  by  the  Elector  of  Brcfnden- 

Digitized  by  VjVJwVJ  Lv, 


604  Leibnitz. 

burg  in  honour  of  the  nuptials  of  his  daughter  with  the  Landgrave- 
of  Hesse-Rheinf els.  There  is  something  very  droll  in  the  half - 
pteasant,  half -mortified  tone  in  which  the  grave  philosopher  recount* 
the  whimsicalities  of  these  festivities  in  which  he  was  called  on  to 
take  a  part.  One  scene,  in  particular,  appears  to  have  caught  his 
fancy.  "  Next  followed  a  fancy  fair,"  he  writes  to  the  Duohess 
Sophia.  "The  Margrave,  Christian  Lewis,  and  many  of  the 
high  officials  of  the  Court,  presided  at  the  booths  and  dispensed  to 
their  customers  ham,  sausages,  tongues,  wine,  lemonade,  tea,  coffee, 
chocolate,  and  similar  viands.  A  certain  Mr.  Yon  Ostea  acted  the 
charlatan ;  the  Margrave  Albert  distinguished  himself  among  the 
jack-puddings  and  rope-dancers :  Count  Von  Solms  and  Mr.  Von 
Wassenaer  were  the  tumblers.  None  of  them,  however,  could 
compete  with  the  juggler,  whioh  part  was  so  cleverly  sustained  by 
the  Crown  Prince,  that  I  think  he  must  have  taken  regular  lessons  in 
legerdemain.  The  Electress,  Sophia  Charlotte,  was  the  Doctor's 
wife,  and  kept  the  booth  for  the  sale  of  his  quack  medicines. 
Monsieur  des  Alleures  acted  the  dentist  to  admiration.  At  the 
opening  of  the  piece  the  Doctor  made  his  solemn  entry  upon  the 
scene,  riding  upon  a  species  of  elephant ;  another  Doctor's  lady 
appeared  at  his  side,  carried  along  by  Turkish  palanquin-bearers  in 
a  state-sedan.  Next  came  the  juggler,  the  jack-pudding,  the 
tumblers,  and  the  dentist:  and,  when  the  entire  file  of  the 
Doctor's  procession  had  passed  on,  a  little  ballet  of  gipsy-girls 
succeeded,  in  which  the  performers  were  all  ladies  of  the  Court, 
under  the  command  of  the  Princess  of  Hohenzollern.  Some  of 
the  rest  joined  the  ballet  and  took  a  part  in  the  dance.  Next  in 
order,  you  saw  an  astronomer  present  himself  with  a  telescope  in 
his  hand.  This  part  was  designed  for  me,  but  Count  Von  Witt- 
genstein goodnaturedly  let  me  off  and  undertook  it  himself.  He 
addressed  a  number  of  congratulatory  predictions  to  the  Crown 
Prince  whom  he  spied  looking  on  from  the  next  box.  Then  came 
the  Princess  of  Hohenzollern  with  her  prophecies  for  the  Crown 
Princess,  couched  in  very  pretty  verses  composed  by  Mr.  Von 
Besser.  Signor  Quirini  acted  as  the  Doctor's  servant ;  and,  for  my 
part,  I  contented  myself  with  using  my  eye-glass  to  the  best 
advantage,  in  order  that  I  might  see  all  as  perfectly  as  possible, 
and  report  the  more  satisfactorily  to  your  Royal  Highness."  The 
letter  goes  on  with  still  further  details,  and  was  thought  so  witty 
and  amusing  by  the  Duchess  to  whom  it  was  addressed,  that  she 
sent  a  copy  of  it  to  Versailles,  to  her  niece,  the  Duchess  of  Orleans, 


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Leibnitt.  605 

afterwards  s;>  well  known  by  the  witty  and  amusing,  but  scandalous 
^Memoirs  which  she  left  behind. 

In  the  midst  of  all  these  distractions,  however,  Leibnitz  found 
or  made  time  for  the  completion  of  his  scheme  for  the  organization 
of  the  projected  Academy.  Even  with  all  the  advantages  which 
the  experience  of  more  than  a  century  and  a  half  has  given  us,  we 
may  well  admire  the  wise  and  liberal  spirit  in  which  it  is  conceived 
and  the  practical  cleverness  by  which  it  is  made  to  embrace  every 
object  and  to  take  advantage  of  all  the  resources  available  for  the 
advancement  of  science.  Among  these  we  may  mention,  in  the 
first  and  most  prominent  place,  a  provision  for  the  regular  issue 
of  medical  and  educational  returns  and  reports  and  other  statisti- 
cal tables,  to  the  full  value  of  which  we  have  ourselves  but  very 
recently  awakened,  and  which  up  to  this  time  had  been  utterly 
unknown. 

The  same  large  and  liberal  views  are  displayed,  to  a  degree 
•still  more  remarkable  and  more  decidedly  in  advance  of  his  age  in 
a  scheme  of  education  which  he  had  drawn  up,  some  years  before, 
under  the  title  of  "A  Plan  for  the  Education  of  a  Prince/'  but 
which  was  not  published  for  many  years  after  his  death.  It  was 
prepared  as  early  as  the  year  1693,  and  was  communicated  for  the 
use  of  the  tutors  of  the  Crown  Prinoe  of  Brandenburg  (afterwards 
Frederick  William  I.  of  Prussia)  about  the  year  1696.  Another 
•copy  of  it  was  sent  to  Father  Vota,  the  Chaplain  of  the  King  of 
Poland,  as  a  guide  for  the  studies  of  the  king's  son,  the  young 
Prince  of  Saxony.  It  is  perhaps  the  first  educational  plan  in 
which  the  true  ends  of  education  are  fully  recognized — in  which 
the  line  is  clearly  drawn  between  the  various  departments  of  know- 
ledge, and  the  distinction  is  practically  established  between  those 
branches  that  are  cultivated  as  a  means,  and  those  which  are 
in  themselves  the  end  of  education.  Estimating  at  their  true 
practical  value  the  languages  and  literatures  of  Greece  and  Borne, 
Leibnitz  does  not  hesitate,  nevertheless,  to  raise  his  voice  against 
the  monstrous,  although  traditional,  abuse,  of  looking  upon  the 
acquisition  of  these  as  the  alpha  and  omega  of  liberal  learning. 
He  lays  down,  with  a  decision  and  a  boldness  which  it  is  impossible 
not  to  admire  in  an  age  of  so  much  prejudice,  the  still  more  vital 
importance  (especially  to  those  in  high  station)  of  those  branches 
of  knowledge  which  have  a  bearing  upon  the  practical  details  of 
life — the  modern  languages,  the  practical  sciences,  the  principles  of 
liberal  and  mechanical  art,  history,  geography,  statistics,  law,  Ac. 
He  urges,  too,  the  true  principles  as  to  the  mode  of  imparting 

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606  Leibnitz. 

instruction,  and  recommends  the  early  and  liberal  use  of  plans,, 
models,  drawings,  and  the  other  tangible  appliances  which  are 
familiar  enough  in  the  educational  art  of  modern  times,  but  which 
were  reputed  daring  and  all  but  revolutionary  innovations  in  the- 
days  of  Leibnitz.  There  is  one  point  in  his  plan  which  is  put  with 
so  much  justice  and  so  much  force  that  it  deserves  to  be  transcribed*. 
It  regards  the  then  invariable  practice  of  putting  the  finishing 
touch  to  the  education  of  a  youth  of  rank  by  sending  him  on  the 
"Grand  Tour:" 

"  What  need  has  a  young  prince/9  he  asks,  "  for  travel,  seeing 
that  he  can  find  infinitely  better  at  home  all  that  is  required  for 
the  completion  of  his  education  P  It  is  one  of  the  follies  of  our 
nation  to  seek  wisdom  beyond  the  Rhine  or  beyond  the  Alps ;  and 
to  purchase,  at  the  cost  of  much  money  and  health,  chimeras  which 
only  serve  to  give  the  mind  a  taste  for  trifles,  and  which  in  the  end 
contribute  to  our  complete  ruin.  Never  has  travelling  been  so 
universal  among  Germans ;  and  never  has  the  country  been  nearer 
to  her  destruction. 

"  It  is  not  the  useful  mysteries  of  foreign  countries,  nor  their 
good  maxims  that  a  young  man  will  be  most  disposed  to  learn  from 
them.  I  am  decidedly  in  favour  of  the  practice  of  the  Italians, 
who  keep  their  young  men  at  home ;  and  I  equally  approve  the 
usage  of  France,  where  young  men,  when  they  leave  school  or 
college,  are  sent  to  the  garrison  or  camp  :  by  this  means  they  learn 
betimes  to  serve  their  country. 

"  Now  this  is  especially  necessary  for  a  prince  to  understands 
because  no  one  is  so  much  interested  as  he  in  the  maintenance  of 
the  State,  to  whose  greatness  he  is  indebted  for  his  own.  At  all 
events,  I  would  infinitely  prefer  an  old  Duke  Ernest  (of  Gotha),, 
who  spent  his  youth  in  the  wars,  and  gave  his  maturer  years  to  the 
improvement  and  good  government  of  his  dominions,  and  restored 
to  prosperity,  by  his  paternal  care,  what  he  had  found  reduced  by 
war  to  the  last  stage  of  exhaustion ;  and  who,  in  every  step  of  his 
career,  proposed  to  himself  piety  and  justice  as  his  unvarying- 
principles  of  action ; — I  would  infinitely  prefer  such  a  ruler  as  this^ 
to  the  most  accomplished  prince  in  the  world — to  a  prince 
thoroughly  versed  in  every  science  and  every  exercise,  able  to 
speak  every  living  language,  endowed  with  all  the  refinement  of 
foreign  manners,  and  capable  of  shining  in  every  society,  how 
brilliant  soever  it  might  be ;  but  yet  indifferent  to  the  prosperity 
and  welfare  of  those  whom  God  had  entrusted  to  his  charge^ 


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Novembribu*  Horn.  607 

stopping  his  ears  to  the  cry  of  misery  lest  it  should  interrupt  his 
personal  enjoyments,  and,  without  regard  to  the  responses  of  his 
people  or  the  dishonour  of  his  own  name,  suffering  his  realm  to 
fall  to  ruin  and  destruction:  a  career  of  which  a  '  Great  Monarch ' 
has  left  behind  him  a  most  deplorable  example ! " 


NOVEMBRIBUS  HORIS. 

THE  swallow  has  slunk 
Away; 
To  a  morsel  is  shrunk 

The  day; 
Boughs  naked  are  sighing, 
And  sere  leaves  flying 
That  emerald  bloomed  in  May. 

The  sun  has  no  fire 

At  noon, 
The  woodland  choir 

No  tune  ; 
And  banks  are  dumb 
Where  the  bees  did  hum 
In  the  pleasant  days  of  June. 

like  a  leaden  pall 

On  high 
firoods  gloom  through  all 

The  sky; 
O'er  a  dull  dead  plain 
Where  the  waving  grain 
Gleamed  golden  in  July. 

And  all  is  bare 

And  drear 
In  earth  and  air 

And  mere : 
While  winds  pursue 
Bead  leaves,  to  strew 
The  deathbed  of  the  year* 


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(    608    ) 


EVERY-DAY  THOUGHTS. 

No.  XI. — Old  Age. 

Bt  Mrs.  Frank  Pentkill. 

Author  of  "Odilb,"  Ac. 

ON  the  trees  some  of  last  year's  shrivelled  leaves  still  hang, 
whispering  low  their  gentle  warnings  to  the  buds  of  spring. 

"  Life  is  short  and  beauty  passes/'  say  the  old  leaves,  with  a 
mournful  rustle ;  "  do  good  while  you  can  and  waste  not  your  youth 
in  merely  basking  in  the  sun,  which  all  too  soon  will  make  you 
sere  and  yellow.  Shelter  the  little  birds  and  murmur  not  though, 
you  fall  a  prey  to  some  rapacious  insect ;  you  will  at  least  have 
given  something  in  dying,  and  that  is  better  than  a  wasted  life 
Above  all,  rejoice  if  you  be  gathered  to  gladden  with  your  bright- 
ness some  sad  city  home  or  hospital  ward.  Yes,  rejoice,  for  you 
will  not  have  lived  in  vain,  if  you  have  bestowed  pleasure  on 
one  sorrowing  heart.  Ah,  little  buds,  believe  the  experience  of 
age  ;  nothing  will  be  so  sweet  as  the  memory  of  kind  deeds,  when 
you  are  old." 

"When  you  are  old/'  I  am  afraid  the  little  buds  pay  but 
scant  heed  to  that  warning.  Nor  do  you  perhaps,  young  people, 
gathering  spring  flowers  beneath  youth's  unclouded  sky.  Old  age 
seems  very  far  off,  does  it  not  P  Something  scarce  worth  preparing 
for  yet.  Something  to  be  thought  of  and  talked  of  very  seldom ; 
and  then  only  as  a  vague  misty  future,  as  distant  almost  as  the 
Greek  Kalends,  or  the  Milennium,  or  the  Crack  of  Doom. 

Yet  old  age,  if  you  live,  will  come  to  you  all,  very  surely  and 
not  so  very  slowly.  It  may,  perchance,  be  an  old  age  of  crutches, 
and  spectacles,  and  ear  trumpets ;  it  will  certainly  be  an  old  age 
of  many  sorrowful  memories,  and  of  very  few  hopes,  except  those 
which  fly,  dove-like,  across  the  waters  of  death  to  rest  in  the  ark 
of  eternity. 

Since,  then,  old  age  must  come  to  you  all,  bethink  you  in  time 
how  to  prepare  for  that  sunset  hour  of  your  lives,  when  you  will 
want  all  the  light  that  pleasant  memories  can  give;  and  no 
memories  will  then  be  more  pleasant  than  the  reoollection  of  former 
kindnesses  to  the  old.    Besides,  if  your  young  hands  have  made 

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Every-Day  ThmghU.  609 

soft  the  pillow  of  age,  be  very  eure  that  young  hands  will,  in 
turn,  soothe  your  last  days.  # 

But  there  are  higher  and  nobler  motives ;  for  cold,  indeed, 
must  be  the  heart  which  canWst  the  double  appeal  of  helplessness 
and  sorrow.  Most  of  us  are  willing  to  stretch  out  helping  hands 
to  childhood,  and  to  guide  aright  ascending  steps ;  then  how  oan 
we  fail  to  succour  the  old,  who  have  all  childhood's  helplessness, 
and  who  have,  besides,  a  sadness  which,  thank  God,  childhood  has 
not ;  for  Hope  at  least  lies  in  every  young  heart,  and  the  plea- 
sures of  Hope  are  so  much  greater  than  those  of  Memory.  It  m 
so  easy  to  picture  the  future  as  we  wish  it  to  be;  so  easy  to  gild 
it  with  sunshine  and  deck  it  with  flowers.  But  the  past  has  always 
had  dark  shadows  and  thorny  paths,  and  the  shadows  and  the 
thorns  have  too  often  been  of  our  own  making.  It  is  this  which 
renders  the  retrospects  of  age  so  full  of  sorrow. 

"  Si  jeunesse  savait;  si  viellesse  pouvait."  How  sad  the  old 
French  saying  is !  Ah  yes !  if  old  age  could  revoke  the  irrevocable 
past !  Looking  back  in  its  wisdom  it  sees  but  too  clearly  the 
f ollies  and  faults  of  its  youth.  It  sees,  so  plainly  now,  how  much 
better,  how  much  wiser,  how  much  nobler  it  might  have  been.  It 
longs  to  alter,  to  repair,  to  undo— and  it  is  too  late ;  the  past  is 
gone,  the  future  belongs  to  others :  to  old  age  nothing  remains 
but  repentance  and  regret. 

That  is  why,  I  think,  of  all  Shakspeare's  tragedies,  no  other 
appeals  to  our  pity  so  much  as  that  of  poor,  deserted,  peevish  old 
King  Lear.  Not  the  hapless  fate  of  Verona's  young  lovers,  not 
gentle  Desdemona's  unmerited  death,  are  as  tragic  as  the  sorrow  of 
the  poor  father,  dying  broken-hearted,  with  only  a  faithful  fool  to 
ahare  his  agony. 

As  I  think  of  these  things,  I  look  out  of  the  window  and  see 
Maggie  and  her  grandmother  sitting  together  beneath  the  trees. 
The  little  dimpled  hand  is  resting  confidingly  in  the  shrivelled 
palm  of  age ;  the  bright  young  eyes  and  the  dim  old  ones  are 
meeting,  with  loving  glances ;  the  child's  heart  and  the  old  woman's 
are  bound  by  the  golden  links  of  a  common  affection. 

The  sight  gladdens  my  soul,  for  it  bids  me  remember  that  age 
claims,  not  only  our  pity,  but  our  admiration  and  our  love ;  and  I 
feel  that,  among  Maggie's  memories,  there  will  be  none  brighter 
than  the  recollection  of  grandmother's  tender  genial  fellowship. 

Grandmother  may  be  a  little  deaf,  but  the  ears  of  her  heart* 
how  quickly  they  open  to  all  Maggie's  misereres  and  .hallelujahs  1 
How  the  old  quavering  voice  joins  with  the  child's,  giving  new 

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610  Every-Day  Thoughts. 

joy  to  her  joy,  and  blunting  the  keen  edge  of  her  sorrow.  "  Take 
heart  of  grace,  my  child,  it  will  not  last  for  ever/9  says  grand- 
mother, as  she  recalls  hef  own  griefs,  and  remembers  that  they  were 
angels  in  disguise. 

And  the  kind  old  eyes,  that  time  has  softened  into  gentler 
beauty !  They  may  require  spectacles  to  read  the  newspaper,  but 
ah !  how  quick  they  are  to  read  our  souls  and  understand  their 
moods.  Quick  and  genial  too,  like  the  sun,  that  sees  all  short- 
comings and  pierces  into  all  the  barren  spots ;  but  only  to  gild 
them  with  its  tolerant  rays,  bringing  out  beauty  where,  before* 
there  was  only  desolation  and  waste. 

What  interest  too  grandmother  takes  in  the  children's  pleasures ! 
enteringinto  them  with  a  knowledge  and  zest  which  we,  middle-aged 
people,  can  only  watch  with  admiring  astonishment.  "  I  hope," 
said  a  French  grandmother,  amid  her  sufferings,  "  I  hope  I  shall 
not  die  till  Lent  begins.  It  would  be  such  a  pity  £or  the  dear 
cliildren  to  lose  all  their  balls  and  parties/'  She  was,  I  fear,  but 
a  worldly  frivolous  old  woman,  this  French  grandmother,  and  yet 
what  a  kind,  unselfish,  grandmotherly  heart  she  had  kept  to  the  last. 

But  it  is  no  wonder  old  women  should  be  so  charming  in 
France,  for  their  life  is  a  bed  of  roses,  from  which  their  children 
have  removed  all  the  crumpled  leaves.  Franoe  may  be  the  Prodi- 
gal Child  of  the  Christian  world.  Like  that  Prodigal  she  may 
have  forsaken  her  Father's  house  and  denied  her  Father's  law  ;  too 
often,  alas,  she  even  denies  the  great  Law-giver  Himself;  but 
one  at  least  of  the  commandments  she  keeps  with  reverence  and 
love,  for  "  honour  thy  father  and  thy  mother  "  is  graven  in  every 
French  heart,  and  practised  in  every  French  home.  Not  only  in 
the  chateaus  and  cabins  of  Brittany,  where  old  traditions  still 
keep  their  sway,  but  all  through  the  land  is  filial  duty  an  instinct 
and  a  pleasure. 

How  often  in  the  episcopal  palace,  in  the  great  artist's  studio, 
in  the  great  author's  library,  in  the  great  statesmen's  salon  do  we 
not  see  the  place  of  honour  kept  for  some  old  peasant  woman, 
who  has  never  laid  aside  her  white  cap  and  country  shoes.  And 
do  you  think  the  famous  son  is  ashamed  of  his  homely  mother,  as 
we,  I  fear,  should  be  P  Not  he  indeed  I  his  mother's  provincial  dress> 
her  patch,  her  smiles  and  praises  are  dearer  to  him  than  even 
popular  applause ;  though  we  all  know  how  dear  that  is  to  a  French- 
man's heart.  Too  often,  alas,  he  has  lost  his  faith  in  all  else ;  his. 
faith  in  his  mother  he  will  never  lose. 

But  here  come  Maggie  and  her  grandmother. 

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True  to  the  Lead.  611 

"  Grandmother  is  cold/'  says  Maggie,  shaking  the  pillow  of 
the  arm-chair,  as  she  draws  it  to  the  fire,  that  still  sparkles  on  our 
western  hearth. 

God  bless  thee,  Maggie,  and  grant  thon  mayest  always  keep 
thy  tender  reverence  towards  old  age.  For  not  to  France,  alone, 
belongs  the  crown  of  filial  duty.  This  Irish  land,  too,  has  tradi- 
tions of  devotion  and  love  for  parents.  May  the  wind,  blowing- 
from  America— the  wind  that  brings  so  many  glad  tidings  of  pros- 
perity— never  bear  to  us  that  impatience  of  age,  that  disregard 
of  the  sacred  parental  claims  which  it  is  so  sad  to  see  among  our 
transatlantic  brothers ! 


TRUE  TO  THE  DEAD. 

THE  parting  rays  of  eventide 
The  peaceful  churchyard  glorified ; 
They  strayed  among  the  gravestones  old, 
And  tinged  the  ruins  gray,  with  gold. 
They  smiled  upon  a  little  child, 
Bearing  from  vale  and  woodland  wild 
Bright  greenery,  from  garden  bowers 
A  basket  filled  with  shining  flowers. 

She  sat  beside  a  sheltered  mound, 
And  placed  her  treasures  on  the  ground,. 
And  wreathed  in  the  twilight  hush 
Buds  glowing  with  the  sun's  last  blush  :- 
Carnation  white,  and  mignonette, 
And  roses  with  the  dew  mists  wet, 
With  purple  pansies  bright,  that  tell 
That  dear  one  doth  in  memory  dwell. 

With  loiing  hands  she  garlanded 
The  sacred  cross  above  the  dead, 
Then  kneeling  in  the  deep'ning  gloom 
Sent  up  to  God  the  blest  perfume 
Of  innocent  beseeching  prayer, 
That  light  may  find  the  sleepers  there ; 
Then  left  her  precious  gifts  to  die, 
And  give  the  dead  their  last  sweet  sigh. 

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612  True  to  the  Dead. 

Screened  from  her  by  a  spreading  tree, 

Slowly  telling  his  rosary, 

A  cure*  watched  and  sadly  thought 

The  little  one  the  grave  had  sought 

Of  parent  dear,  or  sister  kind, 

For  whom  the  dewy  wreath  was  twined, 

And  grieved  to  think  that  she  should  stand 

Thus  early,  close  to  shadowland. 

She  passed  into  the  twilight  gray, 
The  good  priest  blessed  her  on  her  way, 
Then  paused  beside  the  grave  and  read 
The  story  writ  above  the  dead ; 
How  fifty  summer  blooms  did  fade 
Since  mourning  hearts  first  wept,  and  prayed, 
And  strewed  with  flowers  the  earth's  green  breast, 
,  Where  lay  their  aged  sire  at  rest. 

Through  all  the  changes,  joys,  and  fears 
That  mark  life's  course  in  fifty  years, 
The  old  man  held  a  sacred  place 
'..  Among  the  children  of  his  race ; 

They  learned  at  evening  round  the  hearth, 
To  love  his  name  and  know  his  worth, 
And  never  was  the  green  grass  bare 
Of  fragrant  flower  and  humble  prayer. 

Would  that  such  tenderness  were  shed 
In  every  home,  around  the  dead ! 
Could  they  but  dwell  with  us  again 
How  hard  we'd  strive  to  soothe  their  pain, 
Tet  heed  we  not  the  low  sad  call, 
That  ever  on  our  hearts  doth  fall — 
a  Have  pity,  ye  whose  lives  we  blessed, 
Help  us  to  pass  the  gates  of  rest" 

Helena  Callahan. 


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(    613    ) 


CAR^YLE'S   IRISH  TOURS. 
By  T.  Griffin  OTDonoghue. 

A  FOREMOST  name  in  the  literature  of  the  nineteenth  century 
is  that  of  Thomas  Carlyle.  The  vigour  of  his  intellect, 
voiced  as  it  was  by  a  powerful  though  erratic  style  of  writing, 
and  the  boldness  with  which  he  promulgated  his  opinions  and 
assumptions,  early  created  a  stir  in  literary  circles  and  attracted 
the  attention  of  the  reading  public.  They  excited  the  interest  of 
Goethe  in  Germany,  and  Emerson  in  America,  both  of  whom  kept 
up  a  correspondence  with  him  until  their  deaths.  Any  opinions 
coining  from  such  a  writer  are  therefore  entitled  to  our  respect  and 
attention  although  we  may  very  rarely  agree  with  them. 

Anyone  who  has  taken  the  trouble  to  become  even  superficially 
acquainted  with  Carlyle's  works,  cannot  have  failed  to  notice  hi* 
panderings  to  power  and  success,  and  his  adulation  of  despots. 
Frederick  the  Great  and  Cromwell  were  to  him  great  heroes, 
deserving  of  nothing  less  than  the  excessive  praise  with  which  he 
so  freely  bespattered  them.  That  both  men  possessed  some  good 
qualities  few  will  deny,  but  we  fancy  that  the  verdict  of  the  great 
majority  of  right-thinking  people  would  be  pointedly  to  the 
effect  that,  whatever  their  good  qualities,  they  were  nothing  else 
but  tyrants.  Be  this  as  it  may,  however,  it  is  pretty  clear  that 
Carlyle's  sympathies  were  on  the  whole,  with  the  oppressor  rather 
than  with  the  oppressed,  and  this  being  so  we  can  hardly  wonder 
that  the  case  of  Ireland  should  form  no  exception  to  the  general 
rule.  In  looking  through  those  of  his  works  in  which  Ireland  is 
in  any  way  referred  to,  one  finds  little  else  than  insulting  sneers 
and  bitter  sarcasm.  In  one  of  his  earlier  works,  however,  although 
containing  a  great  deal  that  must  inevitably  be  extremely  distaste- 
ful to  Irishmen,  we  do  meet  with  some  passages  which  bear  the 
impress  of  justice  and  impartiality,  and  which  were  afterwards 
destined  to  bear  good  fruit.    In  "  Chartism/'  he  writes : — 

"Ireland  has  near  seven  millions  of  working  people,  the 
third  unit  of  whom,  it  appears  by  statistic  science,  has  not 
for  thirty  weeks  each  year  as  many  third  rate  potatoes  as  will 
suffice  him.  It  is  a  fact  perhaps  the  most  eloquent  that  was  ever 
written  down  in  any  language,  at  any  date  of  the  world's  history. 
Was  change  and  reformation  needed  in  Ireland  P    Has  Ireland 

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«H  Carlyle's  Irish  Tours. 

l>een  governed  and  guided  in  a  wise  and  loving  manner  P  A  govern- 
ment and  guidance  of  white  European  men  which  has  issued  in 
perennial  hunger  of  potatoes  to  the  third  man  extant,  ought  to 
walk  ont  of  court  under  conduct  of  proper  officers ;  saying  no 
word,  expecting  now  of  a  surety  sentence  either  to  change  or  die. 
All  men,  we  must  repeat,  were  made  by  God,  and  have  immortal 
souls  in  them.  The  sanspotato  is  of  the  self-same  staff  as  the 
superfinest  Lord  Lieutenant. 

"  The  woes  of  Ireland,  or  justice  to  Ireland,  is  not  a  chapter 
we  have  to  write  at  present.  It  is  a  deep  matter,  an  abysmal  one, 
which  no  plummet  of  ours  will  sound.  For  the  oppression  has 
gone  far  farther  than  into  the  economics  of  Ireland ;  inwards  to 
her  very,  heart  and  soul. 

"  We  English  pay,  even  now,  the  bitter  smart  of  long  centuries 
of  injustice  to  our  neighbour  Ireland.  Injustice,  doubt  it  not, 
abounds;  or  Ireland  would  not  be  miserable  .  .  .  England  is 
guilty  towards  Ireland ;  and  reaps  at  last  in  full  measure  the  fruit 
of  fifteen  centuries  of  wrong- doing.9' 

Words  like  these  from  a  writer  whose  originality  in  conception 
and  treatment  alike  was  already  making  itself  widely  felt,  excited 
no  little  interest  among  the  more  prominent  figures  in  Irish  politics 
at  that  time ;  the  result  being,  that  shortly  after  the  appearance  of 
the  work  containing  them,  its  author  received  a  visit  from  Charles 
Gavan  Duffy  and  others  of  the  Young  Ireland  Party,  which  ended 
in  Carlyle  promising  them  that  he  would  take  an  early  opportunity 
to  visit  Ireland  and  see  for  himself  the  actual  condition  of  the 
•country.    In  accordance  with  this  promise  he  shortly  afterwards 
•decided  on  paying  his  mother  a  visit  for  a  few  days  at  Sootsbrig, 
and  thence  to  run  across  to  Ireland.    What  he  could  learn  of  the 
distress  which  then  existed  in  the  country,  aggravated  as  it  was 
-by  that  dreadful  calamity  the  potato  blight — had  the  effect  of 
making  him  the  more  desirous  of  ascertaining  its  extent.    After 
•leaving  his  mother,  therefore,  he  went  by  coach  to  Ardrossan, 
where  he  embarked  on  a  steamer  that  carried  him  to  Belfast.    It 
had  been  previously  arranged  that  Gavan  Duffy  and  John  Mitchel 
should  meet  him  at  Drogheda,  to  which  place  he  proceeded  without 
delay.  The  sights  he  saw  on  his  journey  thither  agreed  in  all  respects 
with  what  he  had  heard.  The  dismantled  cabins;  the  watery,  desolate 
fields ;  and  the  air  tainted  with  the  smell  of  putrid  potatoes,  made 
up  a  picture  the  horrors  of  which  impressed  him  deeply  and  which 
in  after-life  he  never  quite  forgot.     We  learn  that  through  a 
mistake  at  the  post-office,  he  missed  Duffy  and   Mitchel,  and 

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CarlyUs  Irish  Tours. 

hastened  on  to  Dublin  where  lie  pat  up  at  the,  Imperial  Hotel  in 
Sackville-street.  From  Dublin  he  went  to  Dundrum,  where  Duffy 
^and  Mitchel  shortly  found  him  at  an  address  furnished  him  by  the 
former.  Here  he  was  entertained  at  a  large  dinner-party, 
"'  Young  Ireland  almost  in  mass."  Among  them  was  Carleton 
the  novelist,  who  is  described  as  "  a  genuine  bit  of  old  Ireland." 
They  "  talked  and  drank  liquids  of  various  strengths/'  and  we  are 
told  by  Froude,  that  "although  the  Young  Irelanders  fought 
fiercely  with  him  for  some  of  their  views,  yet  he  liked  them,  and 
they  liked  him." 

On  the  following  day  he  "dined  at  Mitchel's  with  a  select  party, 
And  ate  there  the  last  truly  good  potato  I  have  met  with  in  the 
world.  Mitchel's  wife,  especially  his  mother  (Presbyterian  parson's 
widow  of  the  best  Scotch  type) ;  his  frugally  elegant  small  house 
And  table,  pleased  me  much,  as  did  the  man  himself,  a  fine  elastic- 
spirited  young  fellow,  whom  I  grieved  to  see  rushing  on  destruction 
palpable  by  attack  of  windmills,  but  on  whom  all  my  persuasions 
were  thrown  away.  Both  Duffy  and  him  I  have  always  regarded 
as  specimens  of  the  best  kind  of  Irish  youth,  seduced  like  thousands 
of  them  in  their  early  day,  into  courses  that  were  at  once  mad  and 
ridiculous,  and  which  nearly  ruined  the  life  of  both." 

"Poor  Mitchel!"  Carlyle  said  afterwards,  "I  told  him  he 
would  most  likely  be  hanged,  but  I  told  him  too  they  could  not 
Jiang  the  immortal  part  of  him." 

Although  he  entertained,  as  we  have  just  seen,  a  sinoere  regard 
for  both  Duffy  and  Mitchell,  he  thoroughly  detested  O'ConneU,  of 
whom  he  never  spoke  save  in  terms  of  the  utmost  contempt  and 
dislike.  He  happened  to  see  him  when  he  made  his  last  appearance 
in  the  Conciliation  Hall,  soon  after  his  release  from  prison ;  and 
in  relating  his  recollections  of  this  meeting,  Carlyle  allows  his 
dislike  of  O'Connell — whom  he  terms,  amongst  other  names,  the 
"  Big  Beggarman  " — to  go  so  far  as  to  vent  itself  on  the  audience, 
•calling  O'ConnelTs  hearers  "  blackguard-looking,"  and  other  such 
unjust  and  objectionable  terms. 

On  the  last  day  of  his  stay — for  this  trip  only  lasted  three  or 
four  days — he  was  taken  for  a  very  fine  drive,  by  the  Dargle  and 
Powerscourt,  and  round  through  the  Glen  of  the  Downs  to  Bray. 
While  crossing  the  rich  pasture  lands  of  the  Old  Pale,  -'  a  fertile 
oasis  in  the  general  wretchedness,"  he  is  said  to  have  humorously 
remarked,  as  his  eye  ran  over  the  trimly-fenced  and  well-tilled 
fields:  "Ah,  Duffy,  there  you  see  the  hoof  of  the  bloody 
J8axon." 

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616  Carlyle'*  Irish  Tours. 

That  same  evening  he  embarked  on  board  a  steamer  at  Kings- 
town, and  early  on  the  following  morning  he  was  sitting  smoking 
before  the  door  of  the  house  in  Liverpool  where  his  wife  was  stay- 
ing, waiting  for  the  family  to  rise  and  let  him  in.  In  this  city  it 
was  that  he  met  for  the  first  time  another  distinguished  Irishman 
who  shared  with  O'Gonnell  the  love  and  gratitude  of  the  Irish 
people:  Father  Mathew,  the  "Apostle  of  Temperance ; "  whose 
kindly,  genial,  and  earnest  manner  made  a  very  favourable  impres- 
sion upon  even  the  grim  and  cynical  Carlyle.  In  a  letter  to  his 
wife  he  writes  of  him  as  follows  : — 

"Passing  near  some  Catholic  chapel,  and  noticing  a  great 
crowd  in  a  yard  there,  with  flags,  white  sticks,  and  brass  bands, 
we  stopped  our  hackney-coachman,  stepped  forth  into  the  thing, 
and  found  it  to  be  Father  Mathew  distributing  the  temperance 
pledgeTto  the  lost  sheep  of  the  place — thousands  strong,  of  both 
sexes — a  very  ragged,  lost-looking  squadron,  indeed.  Father  M. 
is  a  broad,  solid,  most  excellent-looking  man,  with  grey  hair, 
mild  intelligent  eyes,  massive,  rather  aquiline  nose  and  countenance. 
The  very  face  of  him  attracts  you  .  .  .  We  saw  him  go  through 
a  whole  act  of  the  business  ...  I  almost  cried  to  listen  to  him, 
and  could  not  but  lift  my  broad-brim  at  the  end,  when  he  called 
for  God's  blessing  on  the  vow  these  poor  wretches  had  taken." 

In  a  letter  to  his  brother  John,  respecting  this  first  visit  of  his,, 
he  thus  bears  testimony  to  the  kindness  and  hospitality  that  he 
everywhere  received :  "  Tell  my  dear  mother  that  the  Papists  have 
not  hurt  me  in  the  least ;  on  the  contrary  they  were  abundantly 
and  over-abundantly  kind  and  hospitable  to  me,  and  many  a  rough 
object  has  been  put  in  my  head  which  may  usefully  smooth  itself 
for  me  some  day." 

This  trip,  brief  as  it  necessarily  was,  gave  him  some  insight, 
however  slight,  into  the  condition  of  the  country ;  the  ravages 
committed  by  the  potato  blight ;  and  the  misery  and  dissatisfaction 
consequent  thereon.  When,  therefore,  two  years  later  the  fires  of 
rebellion — which  had  been  kindling  so  long — suddenly  burst  out 
and  had  been  as  speedily  suppressed,  it  did  not  come  as  a  very 
great  surprise  to  Carlyle.  The  ardent  and  patriotic  young  spirits 
with  whom  he  had  hob-nobbed,  and  who  had  been  mainly  instru- 
mental in  organizing  it,  were  either  toiling  in  the  convict  settle- 
ments of  Australia,  or  otherwise  scattered  over  the  world.  Mitchel,. 
Martin,  and  O'Doherty  (the  late  M.P.  for  North  Meath),  were 
convicted  and  sentenced  to  various  terms  of  transportation.  Dillon, 
O'Gorman,  Stephens,  and  Doheny,  succeeded  in  effecting  their 

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Carlyle's  Irish  Tours.  617 

escape.  Smith  O'Brien,  Meagher,  M'Manus,  and  O'Donoghue, 
having  been  convicted  of  high  treason,  were  sentenced  to  be  hanged, 
drawn,  and  quartered;  which  barbarous  sentence,  however,  was 
afterwards  commuted  into  transportation  beyond  the  seas  for  life. 
Gavan  Duffy  only  narrowly  escaped.  Three  different  times  was 
he  brought  to  trial,  and  although  the  Crown  made  the  most  strenu- 
ous efforts  to  convict  him,  the  prosecution  was  each  time  broken 
down  by  the  consummate  ability  of  Counsellor  Isaac  Butt.  After 
his  escape,  Duffy  was  for  a  short  time  Carlyle's  guest  at  Cheyne- 
row,  and  it  appears  that  his  description  of  the  wretchedness  of  his 
despairing  and  starving  countrymen  determined  Carlyle  to  see  it 
again ;  to  study  it  more  in  detail ;  and  then,  if  possible,  to  write 
something  about  it  which  would  rouse  England  to  a  better  sense  of 
its  obligations.  In  pursuance  of  this  resolution,  he  left  London 
on  the  30th  of  June,  1849,  in  a  Dublin  steamboat;  and  as  he 
neared  the  coast  of  Ireland  he  could  not  help  noticing  the  great 
absence  of  shipping,  and  of  that  bustle  and  life  generally,  which 
are  an  index  to  the  commercial  prosperity  of  a  nation.  He  thus 
comments  on  the  stagnation  everywhere  observable  on  nearing 
Wicklow  Head : — 

"  In  all  these  seas  we  saw  no  ship.  Absolutely  none  at  all  but 
one  Wicklow  fishing-sloop,  of  the  same  pattern,  but  quite  rusty 
and  out  of  repair,  as  the  Cornish  Pilchard-sloops  of  yesterday ; — 
alas  one,  and  in  this  state  of  ineff ectuality.  A  big  steamer  farther 
on,  making  from  Dublin  towards  Bristol ;  this,  and  a  pilot  boat 
not  employed  by  us ;  except  these  three  we  saw  no  other  ships  at 
all  in  those  Irish  seas  that  day.  Wonderful  and  lamentable ! 
chorus  all  my  Irish  friends ;  and  groped  for  their  pikes  to  try  and 
mend  it !  " 

And  a  little  further  on  he  describes  Kingtown  Harbour  as  "  a 
huge  square  basin  within  granite  moles,  few  ships,  small  business 
in  it ;  wild  wind  was  blowing  somje  filament  of  steam  about,  and 
the  rest  was  idle  vacancy.  Long  lines  of  granite  embankment,  a 
noble  channel  with  docks,  miles  of  it  (there  seemed  to  me),  and  no 
ship  in  it,  no  human  figure  on  it,  the  genius  of  vacancy  alone 
possessing  it!  Will  'be  useful  some  day'  I  suppose?  The 
look  of  it  in  one's  own  cold  wretched  humour  was  rather  sad." 

While  still  at  sea,  Vinegar  Hill  was  pointed  out  to  him,  and 
furnished  him  with  one  of  those  opportunities  that  he  rarely 
permitted  to  pass  of  displaying  his  prejudioe  towards  things  Irish 
in  general.  He  tells  us  that  he  "  thought  of  the  battle  of  Vine- 
gar Hill,  but  not  with  interest,  with  sorrow  rather  and  contempt ; 

Vol.  xiv.  No.  161.  45    ^o\e 

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618  CarlyWs  Irish  Tours. 

one  of  the  ten  times  ten  thousand  futile  fruitless  'battles'  this 
brawling  unreasonable  people  has  fought — the  saddest  of  distinc- 
tions to  them  among  peoples!  In  heaven's* name,  learn  that 
revolting  is  not  the  trade  which  will  profit  you." 

Arrived  at  Dublin  he  went  to  the  Imperial  Hotel  in  Sackville- 
street ;  but  had  hardly  been  there  three  hours  when  he  received  a 
visit  from  John  O'Hagan  (now  Mr.  Justice  O'Hagan,  Chief  of 
the  Land  Commission),  whom  he  terms  "a  brisk,  innocent,  modest 
young  barrister."  Gavan  Duffy  arrived  soon  after,  and  gave  him 
directions  and  introductions  to  various  notabilities  for  the  morrow. 
The  next  day,  Wednesday,  he  paid  a  visit  to  Dr.  Stokes  at 
Merrion-square,  whom  he  designates  "a  clever,  energetic,  but 
squinting,  rather  fierce,  sinister-looking  man — at  least,  some  dash 
of  that  susceptible  in  him.  To  dine  there  to-morrow,  nevertheless." 
He  also  called  on  Sir  R.  Kane  and  Dr.  Evory  Kennedy — neither 
of  whom  were  at  home — and  on  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Callan  (Duffy's 
sister-in-law),  with  whom  he  had  a  long  conversation.  On  return- 
ing to  his  hotel,  he  found  Dr.  Kennedy  waiting  for  him  at  the 
door.  Carlyle  had  had  intentions  of  going  to  Kingstown  that 
night,  but  was  led  off  to  Dr.  Kennedy's  instead ;  where,  as  he 
tells  us,  he  had  "  a  pleasant  enough  little  dinner ;  "  and  where, 
also,  he  met  Dr.  Cooke  Taylor,  of  whom  he  speaks  with  a  kind  of 
pitiful  contempt,  referring  to  him  as  a  "  snuffy,  babbling,  baddish 
fellow,  whom  I  had  not  wished  at  all  specially  to  see.  Strange 
dialect  of  this  man,  a  Yotighal  native,  London  had  little  altered 
that ;  immense  lazy  gurgling  about  the  throat  and  palate  regions, 
speech  coming  out  at  last  not  so  much  in  distinct  pieces  and  vocables, 
as  in  continuous  erudition,  semi-masticated  speech.  A  peculiar 
smile  too  dwelt  on  the  face  of  poor  snuffy  Taylor ;  I  pitied,  but 
could  not  love  him — with  his  lazy  gurgling,  semi-masticated,  semi- 
deceitful   (and  self-deceiving)  speech,  thought,  and  action." 

On  Thursday  he  dined  with  Dr.  Stokes  according  to  promise, 
and  met  there,  amongst  others,  Dr.  George  Petrie,  the  eminent 
Irish  scholar  and  antiquary,  with  whom  he  was  immensely  pleased, 
and  whom  he  describes  as  "Petrie,  a  Painter  of  Landscapes, 
notably  antiquarian,  enthusiastic  for  Brian  Boru  and  all  that 
province  of  affairs;  an  excellent,  simple,  affectionate,  lovable  soul — 
*  dear  old  Petrie/  he  was  our  chief  figure  for  me  :  called  for  punch 
instead  of  wine,  he,  and  was  gradually  imitated ;  a  thin,  wrinkly, 
half -ridiculous  yet  mildly  dignified  man :  old  bachelor,  you  could 
see ;  speaks  with  a  panting  manner,  difficult  to  find  the  word ; 


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CarlyUs  Irish  Tours.  619 

shows  real  knowledge,  though  with,  sad  credulity,  on  Irish 
antiquarian  matters/' 

He  also  saw  thfere  "  Burton,  a  young  portrait  painter ;  thin, 
aquiline  man,  with  long,  thin  locks  scattered  about,  with  a  look  of 
real  painter-talent,  but  thin,  proud,  vain ;  not  a  pleasant  man  of 
genius !  Todd,  antiquarian  parson  (Dean  or  something),  whose 
house  I  had  seen  the  night  before  :  little  round-faced,  dark-com- 
plexioned, squat,  good-humoured  and  knowing  man;  learned 
in  Irish  antiquities  he  too ;  not  without  good  instruction  on  other 
matters.  These  and  a  mute  or  two  were  the  dinner  .  .  .  After 
dinner  there  came  in  many  other  mutes  who  remained  such  to  me. 
Talk,  in  spite  of  my  endeavours,  took  an  Irish  versus  English 
character ;  wherein,  as  I  have  no  respect  for  Ireland  as  it  is  now 
and  has  been,  it  was  impossible,  for  me  to  be  popular !  Good 
humour  in  general,  though  not  without  effort,  always  did  maintain 
itself/' 

On  Friday  he  received  an  invitation  to  dine  with  the  Lord 
Lieutenant,  which  he  politely  declined  on  the  plea  that  he  was  to 
leave  Dublin  that  evening.  He  breakfasted  with  O'Hagan,  Duffy, 
Dr.  Murray,  and  two  young  Fellows  of  Trinity.  These  are  his 
words : — 

"  Fellows  of  Trinity,  breakfast  and  the  rest  of  it  accordingly 
took  effect :  Talbot-street  I  think  they  call  the  place — lodgings, 
respectable  young  barrister's.  Hancock,  the  Political-Economy 
Professor,  whom  I  had  seen  the  day  before ;  he  and  one  Ingram, 
author  of  the  Repeal  song,  '  True  man  like  you,  man '  (clever 
indignant  kind  of  little  fellow,  the  latter),  were  the  two  Fellows ; 
to  whom  as  a  mute  brother  one  Hutton  was  added,  with  invitation 
to  me  from  the  parental  circle,  €  beautiful  place  somewhere  out 
near  Howth,'  very  well  as  it  afterwards  proved.  Dr.  Murray, 
Theology  Professor  of  Maynooth,  a  big,  burly  mass  of  Catholic 
Irishism ;  he  and  Duffy,  with  a  certain  vinaigrous,  pale,  shrill, 
logician  figure,  who  came  in  after  breakfast,  made  up  the  party. 
Talk  again  England  versus  Ireland  .  .  .  Dr.  Murray,  head  cropt 
like  stubble,  red-skinned  face,  harsh  grey  Irish  eyes ;  full  of  fiery 
Irish  zeal  too,  and  rage,  which  however  he  had  the  art  to  keep 
down  under  buttery  vocables :  man  of  considerable  strength,  man 
not  to  be  loved  by  any  manner  of  means.  Hancock,  and  now 
Ingram  too,  were  wholly  English  (that  is  to  say,  Irish  rational) 
in  sentiment.  Duffy  very  plaintive,  with  a  strain  of  rage  audible 
in  it." 

Breakfast  over,  he  went,  accompanied  by  Hancock  and  Ingram 

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620  CarlyWs  Irish  Tours. 

to  look  over  the  University : — "  University  after,  along  with  these 
two  Fellows :  Library  and  busts ;  Museum,  with  big  dark  Curator 
Ball  in  it ;  many  nick-nacks,  skull  of  Swift's  Stella,  and  plaster 
cast  of  Swift :  couldn't  write  my  name,  except  all  in  a  tremulous 
scratchy  shiver,  in  such  a  state  of  nerves  was  I." 

His  estimate  of  Isaac  Butt,  who  was  introduced  to  him  on  the 
same  day  by  Duffy,  is  far  from  being  a  flattering  one.  Carlyle 
thought  him  "  a  terrible  black  burly  son  of  earth :  talent  visible 
in  him,  but  still  more  animalism ;  big  bison-head,  black,  not  quite 
unbrutal:  glad  when  he  went  off  to  the  'Galway  Circuit  *  or 
whithersoever." 

On  Saturday  he  took  breakfast  in  the  Zoological  Gardens  with 
"  Hancock,  Ball  of  the  Museum,  another  Ball  of  the  Poor-law,. 
Cooke,  Taylor,  and  others.  While  waiting  at  the  door  of  his  hotel 
for  Dr.  Kennedy's  car,  which  was  to  take  him  there ;  a  rather 
amusing  incident  occurred,  which  may  as  well  be  given  in  his  own 
words : — 

"  Smoking  at  the  door,  buy  a  newspaper,  old  hawker  pockets 
my  groat,  and  then  comes  back,  saying  '  Yer  hanar  has  given  me 
by  mistake  a  threepenny ! '  Old  knave,  I  gave  him  back  his  news- 
paper, ran  upstairs  for  a  penny,  discover  that  the  threepenny  has- 
a  hole  in  it,  that  it  is  his — and  that  I  am  done  I  He  is  off  when 
I  come  down." 

When  he  had  looked  over  the  Gardens,  he  went  to  see  the 
magnificent  collection  of  antiquities  in  the  Museum  of  the  Royal 
Irish  Academy,  but  although  he  was  much  interested  by  what  he 
saw,  he  speaks  somewhat  lightly  of  some  of  the  most  priceless 
relics  of  Irish  art  and  antiquity.  "  The  Royal  Irish  Academy,'r 
says  Carlyle,  "  really  has  an  interesting  museum :  Petrie  does  the 
honours  with  enthusiasm.  Big  old  iron  cross  (smith's  name  on  it 
in  Irish,  and  date  about  1100  or  so,  ingenious  old  smith  really)  -r 
Second  Book  of  Clogher  (tremendously  old,  said  Petrie),  torques, 
copper  razor,  porridge-pots,  bog-butter  (tastes  like  wax),  bog- 
cheese  (didn't  taste  that  or  even  see)  .  .  Really  an  interesting 
museum,  for  everything  has  a  certain  authenticity,  as  well  as- 
national  or  other  significance,  too  often  wanting  in  such  places." 

He  was  evidently  much  struck  with  the  solemn  grandeur  and 
wild  and  rugged  beauty  of  Glendalough,  for  he  writes :  "  brought 
heath  and  ivy  from  Glendalough ;  grimmest  spot  in  my  memory."" 
Kilkenny  was  his^next  point,  where  he  lodged  with  Dr.  Cane,  the 
Mayor,  of  whom  he  has  given  the  following  description  : — 

"  Dr.  Cane  himself,  lately  in  prison  for  '  repale,'  now  free  and 


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'3lV 


Carlyle9  s  Irish  Tours.  621 

Mayor  again,  is  really  a  person  of  superior  worth.  Tall,  straight, 
heavy  man,  with  grey  eyes  and  smallish  globular  black  head; 
deep  bass  voice,  with  which  he  speaks  slowly,  solemnly,  as  if  he 
were  preaching  Irish  (moral)  Grandison — touch  of  that  in  him ; 
sympathy  with  all  that  is  manly  and  good  however,  and  continual 
effort  towards  that.  Likes  me,  is  hospitably  kind  to  me,  and  I 
am  grateful  to  him." 

When  we  reflect  on  the  utter  misery  and  destitution  so 
prevalent  in  all  parts  of  Ireland  from  '46  to  '49,  we  cannot 
wonder  that  the  great  aversion  of  our  countrymen  and  women  to 
the  workhouses,  deeply  rooted  as  it  is,  should  have  ultimately 
given  way  altogether  before  the  dreadful  pangs  of  hunger,  and 
that  the  famished  and  fever-smitten  people  should  eventually  pour 
into  these  detested  institutions  until  they  became  literally  choked 
up  with  the  dying  and  the  dead.  The  workhouse  that  Carlyle 
inspected  at  Kilkenny,  the  first  he  had  ever  seen,  "  quite  shocked 
him."  He  saw  there  "huge  arrangements  for  eating,  baking, 
stacks  of  Indian  meal  stirabout ;  1000  or  2000  great  hulks  of  men 
lying  piled  up  within  brick  walls,  in  such  a  country,  on  such  a 
day  !  .  .  No  hope  but  of  stirabout ;  swine's  meat,  swine's  destiny 
(I  gradually  saw)  :  right  glad  to  get  away."  And  of  the  inhabi- 
tants :  "  Idle  people  sitting  on  street  curbstones,  &c. ;  numerous 
in  the  summer  afternoon;  idle  old  city;  can't  well  think  how 
they  live." 

At  Eilmacthomas,  Duffy's  arrival  excited  great  enthusiasm 
amongst  all  classes,  even  to  the  policemen,  if  Carlyle  is  to  be 
believed.  The  driver  of  the  conveyance  whispered  that  he  "  would 
like  to  give  a  cheer,"  but  Carlyle,  who  dreaded  the  shock  to  his 
nerves,  answered  "  don't,  it  would  do  him  no  good."  From 
Waterford,  which  he  reached  on  the  12th  of  July,  he  went  to 
Dromana,  from  which  he  was  driven  to  Mountmelleray  Monastery. 
While  going  over  the  grounds  he  was  told  of  a  little  incident 
which  fully  convinced  him  of  the  rigour  of  its  rules.  Some  of 
the  monks,  finding  the  time  hanging  heavily  on  their  hands,  had 
been  guilty  of  looking  through  a  telescope  at  the  Toughal  and 
Cappoquin  steamer.  This  reaching  the  ear  of  the  Prior,  he 
immediately  took  the  instrument  away.  Toughal  was  reached  on 
the  15th,  and  on  the  16th  he  was  at  the  Imperial  Hotel  in  Cork. 
On  the  evening  of  his  arrival  he  was  writing  in  his  room  when  he 
was  suddenly  disturbed  by  the  entrance  of  "  Father  O'Shea  (who 
I  thought  had  been  dead) ;  to  my  astonishment  enter  a  little  gray- 
haired,  intelligent-and-bred  looking  man,  with  much  gesticula- 

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622  Carlyles  Jrish  Tours. 

tion,  boundless  loyal  welcome,  red  with  dinner  and  some  wine, 
engages  that  we  are  to  meet  to-morrow — and  again  with  explosion 
of  welcomes  goes  his  way."  Father  O'Shea  had  been,  with 
Emerson  of  America,  one  of  the  first  to  encourage  Fraser  the 
bookseller  to  go  on  with  "  Sartor  Besartus,"  when  that  work  first 
began  to  appear  in  Fraser' %  Magazine;  hence  Carlyle's  great 
pleasure  at  meeting  him.  On  the  following  day  Duffy  introduced 
Denny  Lane  to  Carlyle,  who  describes  him  as  being  a  "  fine  brown 
Irish  figure ; "  with  a  "  frank,  hearty,  honest  air ;  like  Alfred 
Tennyson  a  little."  He  went  with  a  party  for  a  trip  down  the 
river  on  a  steamer,  and  dined  at  Denny's  cottage  on  return : — 

"Hospitable,  somewhat  hugger-mugger;  much  too  crowded, 
old  mother  of  D.  Lane  sat  by  me,  next  her,  Father  O'Something 
(Sullivan,  I  discover  in  my  letters),  Shea's  curate ;  a  Cork  tcit, 
as  the  punch  soon  showed  him  ;  opposite  me  was  Father  O'Shea, 
didactic,  loud-spoken,  courteous,  good  every  way — a  true  gentle- 
man-priest in  the  Irish  style,  my  only  good  specimen  of  that.  One 
Barry,  editor  of  songs,  of  newspapers,  next  him  ;  Duffy  and  two, 
nay  three  or  four  more,  to  left  of  me  at  the  other  end.  O'Sullivan, 
in  yellow- wig,  man  of  fifty,  with  brick  complexion,  with  inextin- 
guishable good-humour,  caught  at  all  straws  to  hang  some  light 
wit  on  them,  really  did  produce  much  shallow  laughter  (poor 
soul)  from  me  as  from  others  ;  merry  all ;  worth  seeing  for  once, 
this  scene  of  Irish  life." 

He  left  Cork  by  coach  for  Killarney,  which  he  arrived  at  on 
the  18th.  On  his  way  to  Roche's  he  saw,  for  the  first  time,  an 
Irish  funeral  accompanied  by  the  keeners,  but  he  describes  the 
sight  as  being  more  like  a  farce  than  a  solemn  and  touching 
spectacle.  It  is  not  improbable  that  Carlyle's  prejudice  to  vene- 
rated Irish  customs  generally,  is  here  manifested;  but  it  is  by  no 
means  unlikely  that  the  frightful  mortality  of  one  of  the  gloomiest 
periods  of  Irish  history  had  contributed  a  great  deal  to  detract 
from  the  impressiveness  which  previously  marked  such  ceremonies. 
Whatever  the  case,  he  speaks  of  this  funeral  in  his  usual  straight- 
forward manner.  "The  Irish  howl,"  for  these  are  his  words, 
"  was  totally  disappointing,  there  was  no  sorrow  whatever  in  the 
tone  of  it.  A  pack  of  idle  women,  mounted  on  the  hearse  as  many 
as  could,  and  the  rest  walking ;  were  hoh-hoh-ing  with  a  grief 
quite  evidently  hired  and  not  worth  hiring."  At  Roche's  he  met 
"  Shine  Lawlor  "  at  breakfast,  whom  he  terms  a  "polite,  quick, 
well-bred- looking,  intelligent  little  fellow,  with  Irish-English  air, 
with  little  bead-eyes,  and  features  and    repale  feelings,    Irish 

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Carlisle's  Irish  Tours.  623 

altogether.  We  are  to  come  to  breakfast,  he  will  show  us  the 
lakes,  regrets  to  have  no  bed,  &c. — polite  little  man ; — and  we  are 
to  bring  the  inn  car  for  ourselves  and  him,  Poor  S.  L.,  perhaps 
he  had  no  car  of  his  own  in  these  distressed  times !  The  evident 
poverty  of  many  an  Irish  gentleman  and  the  struggle  of  his  hospi- 
tality with  that,  was  one  of  the  most  touching  sights — inviting,  and 
even  commanding  respectful  silence  from  the  great." 

After  breakfast  he  visited  Shine  Lawlor's  place,  Castle  Lough 
as  it  is  called,  not  far  from  Koche's,  where  he  saw  "  Shea  Lawlor," 
a  kinsman  of  Shine's  who  "  explodes  in  talking  over  Duffy ; "  the 
Reverend  Dr.  Moore,  Principal  of  Oscot;  Shine's  younger  brother, 
"  a  medicus  from  Edinburgh  ;  pleasant  idle  youth,  with  cavendish 
tobacco,"  and  others.  He  then  went  to  explore  the  scenery  of  the 
lakes,  of  which  he  writes  as  follows : — 

"  Lake  clear,  blue,  almost  black ;  slaty  precipitous  islets  rise 
frequent ;  rocky  dark  hills,  somewhat  fringed  with  native  arbutus 
(very  frequent  all  about  Killarney),  mount  skyward  on  every  hand. 
Well  enough ;  but  don't  bother  me  with  audibly  admiring  it  .  .  . 
Ornamental  cottages,  deep  shrouded  in  arbutus  wood,  with  clearest 
cascades,  and  a  depth  of  silence  very  inviting,  abound  on  the 
shores  of  these  lakes;  but  something  of  dilapidation,  beggary, 
human  fatuity  in  one  or  other  form,  is  painfully  visible  in  nearly 
all  .  .  .  most  silent,  solitary,  with  a  wild  beauty  looking  through 
the  squalor  of  one's  thoughts  ;  that  is  the  impression  of  the  scene.7' 

The  dinner  at  "Castle  Lough"  on  his  return  was  "noisy- 
Irish,  not  unpleasant,  nor  anywhere  impolite:  nor  was  intelli- 
gence or  candour  (partly  got  up  for  me  it  might  be,  yet  I  think 
it  was  not)  amid  the  roughish  but  genial  mirth  a  quite  missing 
element.  Shea  talked  largely,  wanted  me  to  open  on  O'ConneU 
that  he  might  hear  him  well  denounced ;  but  I  wouldn't  .  .  .  bad 
tea  in  fireless  parlour ;  finally  we  emerge  in  pitch  dark  night,  with 
escort  through  the  woods ;  and  bid  our  kind  Irish  entertainers  a 
kind  adieu.  Good  be  with  them,  good  struggling  people ;  that  is 
my  hearty  feeling  for  them  now." 

Limerick,  Clare,  and  Galway,  were  the  next  places  he  touched. 
At  Tuam  "  a  crowd  had  gathered  for  Duffy's  sake ;  audible  murmur 
of  old  woman  there,  "  Ter  Hanar's  wilcome  to  Chume !  Brass 
band  threatening  to  get  up."  Westport  was  reached  on  the  28th 
of  July,  and  here  was  misery  with  a  vengeance.  "Human 
swinery,"  says  Carlyle,  "has  here  reached  its  acme  happily; 
30,000  paupers  in  this  union,  population  supposed  to  be  about 
60,000.    Workhouse  proper  (I  suppose)  cannot  hold  above  three 

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624  CarlyWs  Irish  Tours. 

or  four  thousand  of  them,  subsidiary  workhouses  and  outdoor 
relief  the  others.  Abomination  of  desolation;  what  can  you 
make  of  it?"  They  did  not  stay  long  in  "this  citadel  of 
mendicancy/'  as  Carlyle  calls  it,  "  intolerable  alike  to  gods  and 
men,"  but  hurried  back  to  Castlebar. 

"  Brilliant  rose-pink  landlady,  reverent  of  Duffy,  is  very  sorry ; 
but — &c.  .  .  .  Bouquet  to  Duffy;  mysteriously  handed  from 
unknown  young  lady,  with  verse  or  prose  note  ;  humph !  humph ! — 
and  so  without  accident  in  now  bright  hot  afternoon,  we  take 
leave  of  Croagh  Patrick,  and  babbling  of  '  literature '  (not  by  my 
will),  perhaps  about  5  p.  m.  arrive  at  Castlebar  again,  and  for  D's 
sake  are  reverentially  welcomed." 

His  next  move  was  to  Ballina,  his  companions  being  Duffy, 
and  the  late  W.  E.  Forster,  who  had  joined  them,  as  Carlyle 
expresses  it,  very  "blue-nosed"  at  Castlebar,  with  news  from  Mrs. 
Carlyle.  At  Ballina  both  Forster  and  Duffy  parted  from  him,  the 
latter  to  visit  certain  Dillons  there.  Carlyle  journeyed  on  to  Sligo, 
where  his  two  Mends  afterwards  rejoined  him,  and  where  he  saw 
so  many  beggars  as  to  call  forth  the  remark  that  beggary  was  the 
"  only  industry  really  followed  by  the  Irish  people."  At  Stranorlar 
he  bid  "  silent,  sorrowful "  Duffy  farewell.  Saturday,  August  the 
4th,  saw  him  at  Deny,  where,  on  the  following  Monday,  his  last 
day  in  Ireland,  he  breakfasted  with  Dr.  M'Knight,  whom  he 
thought  "  an  honest  kind  of  man,  though  loud-toned  and  with  wild 
eyes/'  and  before  the  day  was  ended  he  was  in  his  beloved 
Scotland  once  more. 

So  ended  Carlyle's  last  visit  to  Ireland.  The  hope  he  had 
entertained  of  finding  some  solution  of  the  problem  which  had 
puzzled  so  many  before  him,  was  never  realised.  He  found  it  truly 
t:  a  deep  matter,  an  abysmal  one,  which  no  plummet  of  ours  will 
sound."  Consequently,  the  work  he  had  intended  to  write,  that 
was  to  have  opened  the  eyes  of  Englishmen,  and  to  have  astonished 
them  by  its  easy  elucidation  of  the  difficulty,  never  appeared.  All 
that  he  did  towards  enlightening  the  public  on  the  matter,  was 
merely  to  jot  down,  in  an  abrupt  and  hurried  fashion,  what 
experiences  of  his  journey  he  could  afterwards  recollect,  and  that 
was  all.  Much  that  he  saw  in  Ireland  only  served  to  excite  his 
derision  and  disgust,  and  he  does  not  scruple  to  scoff  at  customs 
and  traditions  dear  to  the  Irish  heart.  He  is  in  more  than  one 
instance  guilty  of  gross  and  exaggerated  misrepresentation  of  the 
Irish  people,  and  passages  in  his  works  might  be  pointed  to  which 
^         are  permeated  with  the  prejudice  and  bigotry  he  was  always  so 

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.  Eroa.  625 

ready  to  denounce  in  others.  Of  coarse,  approbation  from  Carlyle 
is  not  to  be  expected,  seeing  tbat  be  scarcely  ever  bad  a  good  word 
for  anything  that  did  not  happen  to  be  German.  But,  in  forming 
an  estimate  of  Carlyle' s  utterances,  we  should  not  altogether  lose 
sight  of  his  character.  Unfortunately,  Carlyle's  disposition  was 
none  of  the  mildest,  and  the  chronic  dyspepsia  to  which  he  was  a 
martyr,  by  no  means  improved  a  temperament  naturally  morose, 
and  which  indisputably  taints  many  of  his  writings.  But  not- 
withstanding the  many  hard  things  he  has  said  of  us,  he  has,  after 
all,  frankly  admitted  that "  the  Irish  are  a  noble  people  at  bottom ; " 
and  this,  taken  with  the  interest  he  manifested  towards  Ireland 
in  one  of  her  darkest  hours ;  his  warm  friendship  and  admiration 
for  some  of  her  most  gifted  and  devoted  sons ;  and  his  vigorous 
condemnation  of  the  weak  and  vacillating  policy  of  the  Govern- 
ment— whose  hesitation  proved  so  fatal,  where  its  prompt  and 
energetic  action  would  at  least  have  prevented  much  of  the  ruin 
and  devastation  that  ensued — should  go  far  to  mitigate  in  Irish 
breasts  any  bitter  feeling  that  his  prejudice  and  spleen  may  have 
engendered. 


EROS. 

I  HAVE  loved,  and  have  not  loved  in  vain, 
Since  I  loved  you  who  are  good  and  pure, 
Loved  you  with  a  love  that  knew  no  stain. 

I  have  loved,  and  have  not  loved  in  vain, 
Since  my  love  has  taught  me  to  endure, 
Nerved  me  with  the  bitter  wine  of  pain. 

I  have  loved,  and  have  not  loved  in  vain, 

Since  in  the  sweet  mystery  of  prayer 
I  have  shared  with  you  God's  maana-rain. 

Faith  beholds  you,  Love,  no  blight  or  bane, 

Since  brave  Friendship's  pilgrim-garb  you  wear : 
Who  love  truly,  never  love  in  vain* 

Take  my  heart,  O  Lord,  and  let  it  be 
Love's  sweet  instrument  of  praise  for  Thee ! 

E.  E.  T. 


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(  .  626    ) 


NEW  BOOKS. 

1.  The  "Stonyhurst  Latin  Grammar,"  by  Bey.  John  Gerard,  S.J. 
(Blackwood  and  Son,  London  and  Edinburgh),  is  a  small  book  but  an 
admirable  one.  It  is  wondrously  concise  but  most  clear.  The  method 
resembles  somewhat  the  smaller  German  Grammars,  but  in  a  competi- 
tive examination  we  doubt  not  this  little  book  would  bear  away  the  prize. 
It  will  certainly  add  to  the  high  repute  of  that  great  college  whence  it 
issues,  showing,  as  it  does  so  well,  the  enlightened  method  on  which 
the  ancient  languages  are  there  taught.  A  boy  who  has  mastered 
Father  Gerard's  book,  has  really  a  key  to  the  difficulties  which  dis- 
courage the  pursuit  of  a  sound  knowledge  of  Latin,  and  can  use  at 
leisure  more  erudite  works  for  their  proper  end,  the  analysing  of  the 
subtleties  of  human  thought. 

We  hope  Father  Gerard  will  be  induced  to  do  for  Greek  what  he 
has  done  for  Latin.  By  thus  rendering  it  easy,  he  will  push  on  that 
study  of  the  classic  tongues  which  has  formed  the  master-minds  of 
Europe  in  the  past  as  we  trust  it  will  continue  to  form  them  in  the 
future.  The  book  is  admirably  printed  with  many  subtle  devices  of 
the  typographical  art  which  render  the  use  of  it  more  easy  and  more 
agreeable. 

2.  "  The  late  Miss  Hollingford,"  by  Rosa  Mulholland,  has  been 
produced  by  the  popular  publishers,  Blackie  and  Son,  of  London, 
Dublin,  Glasgow,  and  Edinburgh,  in  a  particularly  neat  and  readable 
form,  with  illustrations,  at  a  marvellously  low  price.  The  very  high 
merit  of  the  story  must  for  the  present  be  left  to  be  guessed  from 
some  of  the  circumstances  mentioned  in  the  preface : — 

"  The  Late  Miss  Hollingford  "  was  published  a  good  many  years  ago  in  the  pages 
of  All  the  Tear  Bound.  It  has  never  till  now  been  republished  in  England,  though 
it  has  been  translated  into  French  under  the  title  of  Une  Id4t  Fcmtaaqye,  and  issued 
by  the  Bleriot  Library,  with  a  preface  by  M.  Gounod.  It  has  also  appeared  in  Italian. 
In  the  Tauchnitz  Collection  it  is  bound  in  with  No  Thorougfyare,  having  been  chosen 
by  the  late  Charles  Dickens  as  a  pendant  for  his  own  story  in  a  volume  of  that  series. 
Mr.  Dickens  was  so  pleased  with  this  tale,  and  some  others  by  the  same  author,  then 
a  very  young  beginner,  that  he  wrote  asking  her  to  contribute  a  serial  story  of  con- 
siderable length  to  his  journal  "  The  Late  Miss  Hollingford  "  (the  title  of  which 
was  chosen  by  Mr.  Dickens  himself)  comes  now  asking  for  a  favourable  reception  from 
the  public,  in  the  name  of  the  great  master  of  English  fiction — long  passed  away  from 
among  us. 

3.  Still  briefer  must  be  our  announcement  of  another  new  volume 
from  the  same  wonderful  pen ;  but  very  many  even  of  our  readers  will 

Digitized  by  vjUUV  Lv, 


Notes  on.New  Books.  627 

be  delighted  to  possess  Miss  Mulholland's  "  Marcella  Grace "  in  the 
fine  volume  in  which  Messrs.  Kegan  Paul,  Trench,  and  Company  of  1 
Paternoster-square,  London,  have  sent  it  forth  on  its  independent 
career.  The  large  type  and  good  paper  certainly  help  one  to  enjoy  this 
excellent  tale  of  Ireland  of  to-day,  the  latest  of  the  author's  contribu- 
tions to  a  true  Irish  literature,  if  we  except  "  A  Fair  Emigrant "  which 
is  only  beginning  its  course  in  the  pages  of  a  great  New  York  Maga- 
zine. 

4.  Mr.  James  P.  FarrelTs  "  Historical  Notes  and  Stories  of  the 
County  Longford"  (Dollard,  Dublin),  belongs  to  a  class  of  works 
which  deserve  warm  encouragement.  It  is  full  of  facts  about  special 
districts  in  Ireland  which  have  an  interest  for  many  besides  the  resi- 
dents in  these  districts.  It  is  very  desirable  to  get  permanently  into 
print  as  many  local  traditions  as  possible,  and  as  many  documents  as 
possible  of  local  interest.  Besides  other  advantages  these  particulars 
will  be  of  great  value  to  future  Irish  historians.  The  author,  who, 
we  hope,  is  a  young  man,  begs  the  co-operation  of  his  readers  in  pre- 
paring an  enlarged  edition  of  his  book. 

5.  Of  the  Rudimmta  Lingua  JSebraiea  of  Dr.  Vosen,  newly  edited 
by  Dr.  Kaulen,  which  the  well-known  foreign  publisher,  Herder,  sends 
from  Friburg,  it  will  be  enough  to  say  that  this  new  and  very  concise 
Hebrew  Grammar  is,  we  understand,  the  one  selected  for  the  students 
of  Hebrew  in  Maynooth  College  by  their  learned  Professor. 

6.  A  Member  of  the  Convent  of  the  Perpetual  Adoration,  Wexford, 
has  translated  "The  School  of  Divine  Love/'  by  Father  Vincent 
CarafEa,  seventh  General  of  the  Society  of  Jesus  (Dublin:  M.  H. 
Gill  and  Son).  Father  Caraffa  is  often  quoted  by  St.  Alphonsus,  and 
this  present  work  is  worthy  of  a  saint.  The  translation  has  evidently 
been  made  with  great  care  and  has  been  also  very  carefully  revised 
and  printed. 

7.  "  The  Life  of  St.  Olave,  Martyr,  King,  and  Patron  of  Norway  * 
by  the  Rev.  S.  M 'Daniel  (London :  Washbourne),  is  a  pretty  and  pious 
little  book  which  owes  its  existence  to  the  circumstance  that  the 
sphere  of  Father  M'DanieTs  labours  in  the  diocese  of  Southwark  was 
the  ancient  Catholic  parish  of  St.  Olave. 

8.  "  A  Thought  from  St.  Francis  and  his  Saints,  for  each  Day  in 
the  Tear  "  (New  York :  Benziger),  does  for  the  seraph  of  Assisi  what 
has  been  done  in  other  pretty  little  books  for  St.  Francis  de  Sales,  St. 
Ignatiup,  St.  Teresa,  Father  Faber,  and  probably  others.  We  mention 
the  modern  Oratorian,  in  order  to  express  our  wonder  that  Cardinal 
Newman  has  escaped. 

9.  "  The  Bible  and  Belief,'*  by  the  Rev.  William  Humphrey,  S. J* 
(London:  Kegan  Paul,  Trench,  and  Co.),  is  another  controversial 
work  marked  by  Father  Humphrey's  clearness  and  vigour  of  style 
and  his  logical  acumen.    It  has  the  advantage  of  being  written  for 


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€28  Songs  from  Shatopeare,  in  Latin. 

living  semis  by  one  who  understands  their  real  difficulties  in  submitting 
to  the  authority  of  the  one  Christian  Church. 

10.  For  one  reason  in  particular  we  shall  return  again  to  the  very 
original  and  beautiful  work  called  u  Eucharistic  Hours"  by  E.  M. 
Shapcote  (London :  Washbourne).  Mrs.  Shapcote  will  have  a  share 
in  many  precious  "  hours  before  the  altar.'9 

11.  Though  it  reaches  us  long  after  the  eleventh  hour,  we  must 
name  "  The  Month  of  the  Souls  in  Purgatory  "  (Dublin :  M.  H.  Gill), 
translated  from  the  French  of  Abbe  Berlioux  by  Miss  Eleanor 
Oholmeley. 


SONGS  FROM  SHAKSPEAHE,  IN  LATIN. 
No.I. 

"FULL  FATHOM  FIVE  THY  FATHER  LIES." 

(The  Temped,  Act  I,  Scene  2.)- 

"HULL  fathom  five  thy  father  lies : 
J-      Of  his  hones  are  coral  made : 
Those  are  pearls  that  were  his  eyes  : 

Nothing  of  him  that  doth  fade. 
But  doth  suffer  a  sea-change 
Into  something  rich  and  strange. 
Sea-nymphs  hourly  ring  his  knell : 
Hark !  now  I  hear  them — ding-dong  hell. 

Occidit,  0  juvenis,  pater  et  sub  6jrtibus  his  est, 

Ossaque  concretum  paene  coralium  habet, 
Quique  fuere  oculi  vertunt  in  iaspidas  undae : 

In  rem  Nereidum  et  Tethyos  omnia  abit 
Quidquid  enim  poterat  corrumpi  corpore  in  illo 

Malunt  aequoream  fata  subire  yicem. 
Exsequias,  quod  tu  miraberis,  illi  Phorcys 

Delphinis  ducunt  Oceanusque  suis. 
Fallor  an  ipsa  vadis  haec  nenia  redditur  imis  P 

Glauci  mortalem  flet,  mihi  crede,  chorus. 


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(    629    ) 
THE  GHOST  AT  THE  BATH. 

BY   ROSA  MULHOLLAND, 

▲UTHOB  OF  «•  m  LATE  KIM  KOLUXeVO&B,"  "  MAEOMAA  •JUC1,"  BTC,  VTO. 

MANY  may  disbelieve  this  story,  yet  there  are  some  still  living 
who  can  remember  hearing,  when  children,  of  the  events 
which  it  details,  and  of  the  strange  sensation  whioh  their  publicity 
excited.  The  tale,  in  its  present  form,  is  copied,  by  permission, 
from  a  memoir  written  by  die  chief  actor  in  the  romance,  and  pre- 
served as  a  sort  of  heirloom  in  the  family  whom  it  concerns. 

In  the  year ,  I,  Miles  Thunder,  Captain  in  the Begi- 

ment,  having  passed  many  years  abroad  following  my  profession, 
received  most  unexpected  notice  that  I  had  become  owner  of  certain 
properties  which  I  had  never  thought  to  inherit.  I  set  off  for  my 
native  land,  arrived  in  Dublin,  found  that  my  good  fortune  was 
real,  and  at  onoe  began  to  look  about  me  for  old  friends.  The  first 
I  met  with,  quite  by  accident,  was  ourly-headed  Frank  O'Brien, 
who  had  been  at  school  with  me,  though  I  was  ten  years  his  senior. 
He  was  curly-headed  still,  and  handsome,  as  he  had  promised  to 
be,  but  careworn  and  poor.  During  an  evening  spent  at  his 
chambers,  I  drew  all  his  history  from  him.  He  was  a  briefless 
barrister.  As  a  man,  he  was  not  more  talented  than  he  had  been  as  a 
boy.  Hard  work  and  anxiety  had  not  brought  him  success,  only 
broken  his  health  and  soured  his  mind.  He  was  in  love,  and  he 
could  not  marry.  I  soon  knew  all  about  Mary  Leonard,  his  fiancte, 
whom  he  had  met  at  a  house  in  the  country  somewhere,  in  which 
she  was  governess.  They  had  now  been  engaged  for  two  years ; 
she  active  and  hopeful,  he  sick  and  despondent.  From  the  letters 
of  hers  which  he  showed  me,  I  believed  she  was  a  treasure,  worth 
all  the  devotion  he  felt  for  her.  I  thought  a  good  deal  about  what 
could  be  done  for  Frank,  but  I  could  not  easily  hit  upon  a  plan  to 
assist  him.  For  ten  chances  you  have  of  helping  a  smart  man,  you 
have  not  two  for  a  dull  one. 

In  the  meantime  my  friend  must  regain  his  health,  and  a  change 
of  air  and  scene  was  necessary.  I  urged  him  to  make  a  voyage  of 
discovery  to  The  Bath,  an  old  house  and  park  which  had  come  into 
my  possession  as  portion  of  my  recently-acquired  estates.    I  had 

Vol.  xiv.  No.  162.    December,  1886.  46 


630  The  Ghost  at  the  Rath. 

never  been  to  the  place  myself ;  but  it  had  onee  been  the  residence 
of  Sir  Luke  Thunder,  of  generous  memory,  and  I  knew  that  it  was 
furnished!  and  provided  with  a  caretaker.  I  pressed  him  to  leave 
Dublin  at  once,  and  promised  to  follow  him  as  soon  as  I  found  it 
possible  to  do  so. 

So  Frank  went  down  to  The  Rath.  The  place  was  two  hundred 
miles  away ;  he  was  a  stranger  there,  and  far  from  well.  When 
the  first  week  came  to  an  end,  and  I  had  heard  nothing  from  him, 
I  did  not  like  the  silence ;  when  a  fortnight  had  passed,  and  still 
not  a  word  to  say  he  was  alive,  I  felt  decidedly  uncomfortable ; 
and  when  the  third  week  of  his  absence  arrived  at  Saturday  with- 
out bringing  me  news,  I  found  myself  whizzing  through  a  part  of 
the  country  I  had  never  travelled  before,  in  the  same  train  in  which 
I  had  seen  Frank  seated  at  our  parting. 

I  reached  D ,  and,  shouldering  my  knapsack,  walked  right 

into  the  heart  of  a  lovely  wooded  country.  Following  the  directions 
I  had  received,  I  made  my  way  to  a  lonely  road,  on  which  I  met 
not  a  soul,  and  which  seemed  cut  out  of  the  heart  of  a  forest,  so 
closely  were  the  trees  ranked  on  either  side,  and  so  dense  was  the 
twilight  made  by  the  meeting  and  intertwining  of  the  thick 
branches  overhead.  In  these  shades  I  came  upon  a  gate,  like  a 
gate  run  to  seed,  with  tall,  thin,  brick  pillars,  brandishing  long 
grasses  from  their  heads,  and  spotted  with  a  melancholy  crust  of 
creeping  moss.  I  jangled  a  cracked  bell,  and  an  old  man  appeared 
from  the  thickets  within,  stared  at  me,  then  admitted  me  with  a 
rusty  key.  I  breathed  freely  on  hearing  that  my  friend  was  well 
and  to  be  seen.  I  presented  a  letter  to  the  old  man,  having  a  fanoy 
not  to  avow  myself. 

I  found  my  friend  walking  up  and  down  the  alleys  of  a  neglected 
orchard,  with  the  lichened  branches  tangled  above  his  head,  and 
ripe  apples  rotting  about  his  feet.  His  hands  were  locked  behind 
his  back,  and  his  head  was  set  on  one  side,  listening  to  the  singing 
of  a  bird.  I  never  had  seen  him  look  so  well ;  yet  there  was 
a  vacancy  about  his  whole  air  which  I  did  not  like.  He  did  not 
seem  at  all  surprised  to  see  me,  asked  had  he  really  not  written  to  me, 
thought  he  had  ;  was  so  comfortable  that  he  had  forgotten  every- 
thing else.  He  thought  he  had  only  been  there  about  three  days ; 
could  not  imagine  how  the  time  had  passed.  He  seemed  to  talk 
wildly,  and  this,  coupled  with  the  unusual  happy  placidity  of  his 
manner,  confounded  me.  The  plaoe  knew  him,  he  told  me  con- 
fidentially ;  the  plaoe  belonged  to  him,  or  should ;  the  birds  sang 
him  this,  the  very  trees  bent  before  him  as  he  passed,  the  air 

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The  Ghost  at  the  Bath.  831 

whispered  him  that  he  had  been  long  expected,  and  should  be  poor 
no  mora  Wrestling  with  my  judgment  ere  it  should  pronounce 
him  mad,  I  followed  him  indoors.  The  Bath  was  no  ordinary  old 
■country-house.  The  acres  around  it  were  so  wildly  overgrown  that 
it  was  hard  to  decide  which  had  been  pleasure-ground  and  where 
the  thickets  had  begun.  The  plan  of  the  house  was  grand,  with 
mullioned  windows,  and  here  and  there  a  fleck  of  stained  glass 
Hinging  back  the  challenge  of  an  angry  sunset.  The  vast  rooms 
were  full  of  a  dusky  glare  from  the  sky  as  I  strolled  through 
them  in  the  twilight.  The  antique  furniture  had  many  a  blood* 
red  splash  on  the  notches  of  its  dark  carvings;  the  dusty 
mirrors  flared  back  at  the  windows,  while  the  faded  curtains  pro- 
duced  streaks  of  uncertain  colour  from  the  depths  of  their  sullen 
foldings. 

Dinner  was  laid  for  us  in  the  library,  a  long  wainscotted  room, 
with  an  enormous  fire  roaring  up  the  chimney,  sending  a  dancing 
light  over  the  dingy  titles  of  long  unopened  books.  The  old  man 
who  had  unlocked  the  gate  for  me  served  us  at  table,  and,  after 
drawing  the  dusty  curtains,  and  furnishing  us  with  a  plentiful 
supply  of  fuel  and  wine,  left  us.  His  clanking  hobnailed  shoes 
went  echoing  away  in  the  distance  over  the  unmatted  tiles  of  the 
vacant  hall  till  a  door  closed  with  a  resounding  clang  very  far  away, 
letting  us  know  that  we  were  shut  up  together  for  the  night  in  this 
vast,  mouldy,  oppressive  old  house. 

I  felt  as  if  I  could  scarcely  breathe  in  it.  I  could  not  eat  with 
my  usual  appetite.  The  air  of  the  place  seemed  heavy  and  tainted. 
I  grew  sick  and  restless.  The  very  wine  tasted  badly,  as  if  it  had 
leen  drugged.  I  had  a  strange  sort  of  feeling  that  I  had  been  in 
the  house  before,  and  that  something  evil  had  happened  to  me  in 
it.  Yet  such  could  not  be  the  case.  What  puzzled  me  most  was, 
that  I  should  feel  dissatisfied  at  seeing  Frank  looking  so  well,  and 
eating  so  heartily.  A  little  time  before  I  should  have  been  glad 
to  suffer  something  to  see  him  as  he  looked  now ;  and  yet  not  quite 
as  he  looked  now.  There  was  a  drowsy  contentment  about  him 
which  I  could  not  understand.  He  did  not  talk  of  his  work,  or  of 
•any  wish  to  return  to  it.  He  seemed  to  have  no  thought  of  any* 
thing  but  the  delight  of  hanging  about  that  old  house,  which  had 
certainly  cast  a  spell  over  him. 

About  midnight  he  seized  a  light,  and  proposed  retiring  to 
our  rooms.  "  I  have  such  delightful  dreams  in  this  place,"  he 
said.  He  volunteered,  as  we  issued  into  the  hall,  to  take  me 
upstairs  and  show  me  the  upper  regions  of  his  paradise.    I  said, 

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632  The  Ghost  at  the  Rath. 

"  Not  to-night."  I  felt  a  strange  creeping  sensation  as  I  looked 
tip  the  vast  black  staircase,  wide  enough  for  a  coach  to  drive  down,, 
and  at  the  heavy  darkness  bending  over  it  like  a  corse,  while  our 
lamps  made  drips  of  light  down  the  first  two  or  three  gloomy  steps. 
Our  bedrooms  were  on  the  ground  floor,  and  stood  opposite  one 
another  off  a  passage  which  led  to  a  garden.  Into  mine  Frank 
conducted  me,  and  left  me  for  his  own. 

The  uneasy  feeling  which  I  have  described  did  not  go  from  mo 
with  him,  and  I  felt  a  restlessness  amounting  to  pain  when  left 
alone  in  my  chamber.  Efforts  had  evidently  been  made  to  render 
the  room  habitable,  but  there  was  a  something  antagonistic  to 
deep  in  every  angle  of  its  many  crooked  corners.  I  kicked  chairs, 
out  of  their  prim  order  along  the  wall,  and  banged  things  about 
here  and  there ;  finally,  thinking  that  a  good  night's  rest  was  the 
best  cure  for  an  inexplicably  disturbed  frame  of  mind,  I  undressed 
as  quickly  as  possible,  and  laid  my  head  on  my  pillow  under  acanopy 
like  the  wings  of  a  gigantic  bird  of  prey  wheeling  above  me  ready 
to  pounce. 

But  I  could  not  sleep.  The  wind  grumbled  in  the  chimney, 
and  the  boughs  swished  in  the  garden  outside ;  and  between  these- 
noises  I  thought  I  heard  sounds  coming  from  the  interior  of  the 
old  house,  where  all  should  have  been  still  as  the  dead  down  in 
their  vaults.  I  could  not  make  out  what  these*  sounds  were. 
Sometimes  I  thought  I  heard  feet  running  about,  sometimes  I 
could  have  sworn  there  were  double  knocks,  tremendous  tantarara- 
ras  at  the  great  hall-door.  Sometimes  I  heard  the  clashing  of 
dishes,  the  echo  of  voices  calling,  and  the  dragging  about  of  furni- 
ture. Whilst  I  sat  up  in  bed  trying  to  account  for  these  noises, 
my  door  suddenly  flew  open,  a  bright  light  streamed  in  from  the 
passage  without,  and  a  powdered  servant  in  an  elaborate  livery  of 
antique  pattern  stood  holding  the  handle  of  the  door  in  his  hand, 
and  bowing  low  to  me  in  the  bed. 

"Her  ladyship,  my  mistress,  desires  your  presence  in  the 
drawingroom,  sir." 

This  was  announced  in  the  measured  tone  of  a  well-trained 
domestic.  Then  with  another  bow  he  retired,  the  door  closed,  and 
I  was  left  in  the  dark  to  determine  whether  I  had  not  suddenly 
awakened  from  a  tantalising  dream.  In  spite  of  my  very  wakeful 
sensations,  I  believe  I  should  have  endeavoured  to  convince  myself 
that  I  had  been  sleeping,  but  that  I  perceived  light  shining  under 
my  door,  and  through  the  keyhole,  from  the  passage.  I  got  up> 
lit  my  lamp,  and  dressed  myself  as  hastily  as  I  was  able. 

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The  Ghost  at  the  Rath.  63* 

I  opened  my  door,  and  the  passage  down  which  a  short  time- 
before  I  had  almost  groped  my  way,  with  my  lamp  blinking  in  the 
dense  foggy  darkness,  was  now  illuminated  with  a  light  as  bright 
as  gas.  I  walked  along  it  quickly,  looking  right  and  left  to  see- 
whence  the  glare  proceeded.  Arriving  at  the  hall,  I  found  it  also 
biasing  with  light,  and  filled  with  perfume.  Groups  of  choice' 
plants,  heavy  with  blossoms,  made  it  look  like  a  garden.  The- 
mosaic  floor  was  strewn  with  costly  mats.  Soft  colours  and  gild- 
ing shone  from  the  walls,  and  canvases  that  had  been  black  gave 
forth  faces  of  men  and  women  looking  brightly  from  their 
burnished  frames.  Servants  were  running  about,  the  diningroom 
and  drawingroom  doors  were  opening  and  abutting*  and  as  I  looked 
through  each  I  saw  vistas  of  light  and  colour,  the  moving  of 
brilliant  crowds,  the  waving  of  feathers,  and  glancing  of  brilliant: 
dresses  and  uniforms.  A  festive  hum  reached  me  with  a  drowsy 
subdued  sound  as  if  I  were  listening  with  stuffed  ears.  Standing* 
aside  by  an  orange-tree,  I  gave  up  speculating  on  what  this  might 
be,  and  concentrated  all  my  powers  on  observation. 

Wheels  were  heard  suddenly,  and  a  resounding  knock  banged 
at  the  door  till  it  seemed  that  the  very  rooks  in  the  chimneys  must- 
be  startled  screaming  out  of  their  nests.  The  door  flew  open,  a 
flaming  of  lanterns  was  seen  outside,  and  a  dazzling  lady  came  up. 
the  steps  and  swept  into  the  hall.  When  she  held  up  her  cloth  of 
silver  train,  I  could  see  the  diamonds  that  twinkled  on  her  feet. 
Her  bosom  was  covered  with  moss-roses,  and  there  was  a  red  light 
in  her  eyes  like  the  reflexion  from  a  hundred  glowing  fires.  Her 
black  hair  went  coiling  about  her  head,  and  couched  among  the 
braids  lay  a  jewel  not  unlike  the  head  of  a  snake.  She  was  flash-* 
ing  and  glowing  with  gems  and  flowers.  Her  beauty  and  her 
brilliance  made  me  dizzy.  There  came  a  faintneas  in  the  air,  as  if 
her  breath  had  poisoned  it.  A  whirl  of  storm  came  in  with  her, 
and  rushed  up  the  staircase  like  a  moan.  The  plants  shuddered 
and  shed  their  blossoms,  and  all  the  lights  grew  dim  a  moment* 
then  flared  up  again. 

Now  the  drawingroom  door  opened,  and  a  gentleman  came  out 
with  a  young  girl  leaning  on  his  arm.  He  was  a  fine-looking,, 
middle-aged  gentleman,  with  a  mild  countenance. 

The  girl  was  a  slender  creature,  with  golden  hair  and  a  pale- 
face. She  was  dressed  in  pure  white,  with  a  large  ruby  like  a 
drop  of  blood  at  her  throat.  They  advanced  together  to  receive 
the  lady  who  had  arrived.  The  gentleman  offered  his  arm  to  the 
stranger,  and  the  girl  who  was  displaced  for  her  fell  back,  and. 

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634  The  Ghost  at  the  Bath. 

walked  behind  them  with  a  downcast  air.  I  felt  irresistibly 
impelled  to  follow  them,  and  passed  with  them  into  the  drawing- 
Toom.  Never  had  I  mixed  in  a  finer,  gayer  crowd.  The  costumes 
were  rich  and  of  an  old-fashioned  pattern.  Dancing  was  going 
forward  with  spirit — minuets  and  country-dances.  The  stately 
gentleman  was  evidently  the  host,  and  moved  among  the  company, 
introducing  the  magnificent  lady  right  and  left.  He  led  her  to 
the  head  of  the  room  presently,  and  they  mixed  in  the  dance. 
The  arrogance  of  her  manner  and  the  fascination  of  her  beauty 
were  wonderful. 

I  cannot  attempt  to  describe  the  strange  manner  in  which  I 
was  in  this  company,  and  yet  not  of  it.  I  seemed  to  view  all  I 
beheld  through  some  fine  and  subtle  medium*  I  saw  clearly,  yet 
I  felt  that  it  was  not  with  my  ordinary  naked  eyesight.  I  can 
compare  it  to  nothing  but  looking  at  a  scene  through  a  piece  of 
smoked  or  coloured  glass.  And  just  in  the  same  way  (as  I  have 
said  before)  all  sounds  seemed  to  reach  me  as  if  I  were  listening 
with  ears  imperfectly  stuffed.  No  one  present  took  any  notice  of 
me.  I  spoke  to  several,  and  they  made  no  reply — did  not  even 
turn  their  eyes  upon  me,  nor  show  in  any  way  that  they  heard  me. 
I  planted  myself  straight  in  the  way  of  a  fine  fellow  in  a  general's 
uniform,  but  he,  swerving  neither  to  right  nor  left  by  an  inch, 
kept  on  his  way,  as  though  I  were  a  streak  of  mist,  and  left  me 
l>ehind  him.  Every  one  I  touched  eluded  me  somehow.  Substantial 
as  they  all  looked,  I  could  not  contrive  to  lay  my  hand  on  any- 
thing that  felt  like  solid  flesh.  Two  or  three  times  I  felt  a 
momentary  relief  from  the  oppressive  sensations  which  distracted 
me,  when  I  firmly  believed  I  saw  Frank's  head  at  some  distance 
-among  the  crowd,  now  in  one  room  and  now  in  another,  and  again 
in  the  conservatory,  which  was  hung  with  lamps,  and  filled  with 
people  walking  about  among  the  flowers.  But,  whenever  I 
approached,  he  had  vanished.  At  last  I  came  upon  him,  sitting 
by  himself  on  a  couch  behind  a  curtain  watching  the  dancers.  I 
laid  my  hand  upon  his  shoulder.  Here  was  something  substantial 
at  last.  He  did  not  look  up ;  he  seemed  aware  neither  of  my  touch 
nor  my  speech.  I  looked  in  his  staring  eyes,  and  found  that  he 
was  sound  asleep.     I  could  not  wake  him. 

Curiosity  would  not  let  me  remain  by  his  side.  I  again  mixed 
with  the  crowd,  and  found  the  stately  host  still  leading  about  the 
magnificent  lady.  No  one  seemed  to  notice  that  the  golden-haired 
girl  was  sitting  weeping  in  a  corner ;  no  one  but  the  beauty  in 
the  silver  train,  who  sometimes  glanced  at  her  contemptuously. 


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The  Ghost  at  the  Math.  635 

"Whilst  I  watched  her  distress  a  group  came  between  me  and  her, 
and  I  wandered  into  another  room,  where,  as  though  I  had  turned 
from  one  picture  of  her  to  look  at  another,  I  beheld  her  dancing 
gaily  in  the  full  glee  of  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley,  with  a  fine-look- 
ing youth,  who  was  more  plainly  dressed  than  any  other  person  in 
the  room.  Never  was  a  better-matched  pair  to  look  at.  Down 
the  middle  they  danced,  hand  in  hand,  his  face  full  of  tenderness, 
hers  beaming  with  joy,  right  and  left  bowing  and  curtseying, 
parting  and  meeting  again,  smiling  and  whispering ;  but  oyer  the 
heads  of  smaller  women  there  were  the  fierce  eyes  of  the  magnifi- 
cent beauty  scowling  at  them.  Then  again  the  orowd  shifted 
around  me,  and  this  scene  was  lost. 

For  some  time  I  could  see  no  trace  of  the  golden-haired  girl 
in  any  of  the  rooms.  I  looked  for  her  in  vain,  till  at  last  I  caught 
a  glimpse  of  her  standing  smiling  in  a  doorway  with  her  finger 
lifted,  beckoning.  At  whom  ?  Could  it  be  at  me  P  Her  eyes 
were  fixed  on  mine.  I  hastened  into  the  hall,  and  caught  sight  of 
her  white  dress  passing  up  the  wide  black  staircase  from  which  I 
had  shrunk  some  hours  earlier.  I  followed  her,  she  keeping  some 
steps  in  advance.  It  was  intensely  dark,  but  by  the  gleaming  of 
her  gown  I  was  able  to  trace  her  flying  figure.  Where  we  went, 
I  knew  not,  up  how  many  stairs,  down  how  many  passages,  till  we 
arrived  at  a  low-roofed  large  room  with  sloping  roof  and  queer 
windows  where  there  was  a  dim  light,  like  the  sanctuary  light  in  a 
deserted  church.  Here,  when  I  entered,  the  golden  head  was 
glimmering  over  something  which  I  presently  disoerned  to  be  a 
cradle  wrapped  round  with  white  curtains,  and  with  a  few  fresh 
flowers  fastened  up  on  the  hood  of  it,  as  if  to  catch  a  baby's  eye. 
The  fair  sweet  face  looked  up  at  me  with  a  glow  of  pride  on  it, 
smiling  with  happy  dimples.  The  ,  white  hands  unfolded  the 
curtains,  and  stripped  back  the  coverlet.  Then,  suddenly  there 
went  a  rushing  moan  all  round  the  weird  room,  that  seemed  like  a 
gust  of  wind  forcing  in  through  the  crannies,  and  shaking  the 
jingling  old  windows  in  their  sockets.  The  cradle  was  an  empty 
one.  The*  girl  fell  back  with  a  look  of  horror  on  her  pale  face 
that  I  shall  never  forget,  then  flinging  her  arms  above  her  head, 
she  dashed  from  the  room. 

I  followed  her  as  fast  as  I  was  able,  but  the  wild  white  figure 
was  too  swift  for  me.  I  had  lost  her  before  I  reached  the  bottom 
of  the  staircase.  I  searched  for  her,  first  in  one  room,  then  in 
another,  neither  could  I  see  her  foe  (as  I  already  believed  to  be), 
the  lady  of  the  silver  train.     At  length  I  found  myself  in  a  small 

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686  The  Ghost  at  the  Bath. 

ante-room,  where  a  lamp  was  expiring  on  the  table.  A  window 
was  open,  close  by  it  the  golden-haired  girl  was  lying  sobbing  in 
a  chair,  while  the  magnificent  lady  was  bending  over  her  as  if 
soothingly,  and  offering  her  something  to  drink  in  a  goblet.  The 
moon  was  rising  behind  the  two  figures.  The  shuddering  light 
of  the  lamp  was  flickering  over  the  girl's  bright  head,  the  rich 
embossing  of  the  golden  cup,  the  lady's  silver  robes,  and,  I  thought, 
the  jewelled  eyes  of  the  serpent  looked  out  from  her  bending  head. 
As  I  watched,  the  girl  raised  her  face  and  drank,  then  suddenly 
dashed  the  goblet  away ;  while  a  cry  such  as  I  never  heard  but 
once,  and  shiver  to  remember,  rose  to  the  very  roof  of  the  old 
house,  and  the  clear  sharp  word  "  Poisoned  !  "  rang  and  reverbe- 
rated from  hall  and  chamber  in  a  thousand  echoes,  like  the  clash 
of  a  peal  of  bells.  The  girl  dashed  herself  from  the  open  window, 
leaving  the  cry  clamouring  behind  her.  I  heard  the  violent  open- 
ing of  doors  and  running  of  feet,  but  I  waited  for  nothing  more- 
Maddened  by  what  I  had  witnessed,  I  would  have  felled  the 
murderess,  but  she  glided  unhurt  from  under  my  vain  blow.  I 
sprang  from  the  window  after  the  wretched  white  figure.  I  saw 
it  flying  on  before  me  with  a  speed  I  could  not  overtake.  I  ran 
till  I  was  dizzy.  I  called  like  a  madman,  and  heard  the  owls 
croaking  back  to  me.  The  moon  grew  huge  and  bright,  the  trees 
thrust  themselves  out  before  it  like  the  bushy  heads  of  giants,  the 
river  lay  keen  and  shining  like  a  long  unsheathed  sword,  couching 
for  deadly  work  among  the  rushes.  The  white  figure  shimmered  and 
vanished,  glittered  brightly  on  before  me,  shimmered  and  vanished 
again,  shimmered,  staggered,  fell,  and  disappeared  in  the  river. 
Of  what  she  was,  phantom  or  reality,  I  thought  not  at  the  moment : 
she  had  the  semblance  of  a  human  being  going  to  destruction,  and 
I  had  the  frenried  impulse  to  save  her.  I  rushed  forward  with 
one  last  effort,  struck  my  foot  against  the  root  of  a  tree,  and  was 
dashed  to  the  ground*  I  remember  a  orash,  momentary  pain  and 
confusion ;  then  nothing  more. 

When  my  senses  returned,  the  red  clouds  of  the  dawn  were 
shining  in  the  river  beside  me.  I  arose  to  my  feet,  and  found 
that,  though  much  bruised,  I  was  otherwise  unhurt  I  busied  my 
mind  in  recalling  the  strange  circumstances  whioh  brought  me  to 
that  place  in  the  dead  of  the  night.  The  recollection  of  all  I  had 
witnessed  was  vividly  present  to  my  mind.  I  took  my  way  slowly 
to  the  house,  almost  expecting  to  see  the  marks  of  wheels  and 
other  indications  of  last  night's  revel,  but  the  rank  grass  that 
covered  the  gravel  was  uncrushed,  not  a  blade  disturbed,  not  a 


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The  Ghost  at  the  Bath.  637 

«tone  displaced.  I  shook  one  of  the  drawingroom  windows  till  I 
shook  off  the  old  rusty  hasp  inside,  flung  up  the  creaking  sash, 
«nd  entered.  Where  were  the  brilliant  draperies  and  carpets,  the 
soft  gilding,  the  vases  teeming  with  flowers,  the  thousand  sweet 
odours  of  the  night  before  P  Not  a  trace  of  them ;  no,  nor  even 
a  ragged  cobweb  swept  away,  nor  a  stiff  chair  moved  an  inch  from 
its  melancholy  place,  nor  die  face  of  a  mirror  relieved  from  one 
speck  of  its  obscuring  dust ! 

Coming  back  into  the  open  air,  I  met  the  old  man  from  the 
gate  walking  up  one  of  the  weedy  paths.  He  eyed  me  meaningly 
from  head  to  foot,  but  I  gave  him  good  morrow  cheerfully. 

"  You  see  I  am  poking  about  early/9  I  said. 

"  I'  faith,  sir,"  said  he,  "  an9  ye  look  like  a  man  that  had  been 
ipokin'  about  all  night." 

" How  so?"  saidl. 

"  Why,  ye  see,  sir,"  said  he,  "  I'm  used  to  %  an'  I  can  read 
it  in  yer  face  like  prent.  Some  sees  one  thing  an'  same  another, 
«n'  some  only  feels  an1  hears.  The  poor  jintleman  inside,  he  says 
nothin'  but  that  he  has  beaut}rful  dhrames.  An'  for  the  Lord's  sake* 
•sir,  take  him  out  o'  this,  for  I've  seen  him  wandherin'  about  like  a 
ghost  himself  in  the  heart  of  the  night,  an'  him  that  sound  sleepin' 
that  I  couldn't  wake  him ! " 

At  breakfast  I  said  nothing  to  Frank  of  my  strange  adventures. 
He  had  rested  well,  he  said,  and  boasted  of  his  enchanting  dreams. 
I  asked  him  to  describe  them,  when  he  grew  perplexed  and  annoyed. 
He  remembered  nothing,  but  that  his  spirit  had  been  delightfully 
entertained  whilst  his  body  reposed.  I  now  felt  a  curiosity  to  go 
through  the  old  house,  and  was  not  surprised,  on  pushing  open 
«  door  at  the  end  of  a  remote  mouldy  passage,  to  enter  the  identical 
•chamber  mto  which  I  had  followed  the  pale-faced  girl  when  she 
beckoned  me  out  of  the  drawingroom.  There  were  the  low  brood- 
ing roof  and  slanting  walls,  the  short  wide  latticed  windows  to 
which  the  noonday  sun  was  trying  to  pierce  through  a  forest  of 
leaves.  The  hangings  rotting  with  age  shook  like  dreary  banners 
at  the  opening  of  the  door,  and  there  in  the  middle  of  the  room 
was  the  cradle ;  only  the  curtains  that  had  been  white  were  blackened 
with  dirt,  and  laced  and  overlaced  with  cobwebs.  I  parted  the 
curtains,  bringing  down  a  shower  of  dust  upon  the  floor,  and  saw 
lying  upon  the  pillow,  within,  a  child's  tiny  shoe,  and  a  toy.  I 
need  not  describe  the  rest  of  the  house.    It  was  vast  and  rambling, 


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638  The  Ghost  at  the  Rath. 

and,  as  far  as  furniture  and  decorations  were  concerned,  the  wrack 
of  grandeur. 

Having  strange  subject  for  meditation,  I  walked  alone  in  the 
orchard  that  evening.    This  orchard  sloped  towards  the  river  I 
have  mentioned  before.     The  trees  were  old  and  stunted,  and  the 
branches  tangled  overhead.    The  ripe  apples  were  rotting  in  the 
long  bleached  grass.    A  row  of  taller  trees,  sycamores  and  chest* 
nuts,  straggled  along  by  the  river's  edge,  ferns  and  tall  weeds, 
grew  round  and  amongst  them  and  between  their  trunks,  and 
behind  the  rifts  in  the  foliage  the  water  was  seen  to  flow.     Walk- 
ing up  and  down  one  of  the  paths  I  alternately  faced  these  trees 
and  turned  my  back  upon  them.     Once  when  coming  towards 
them  I  chanced  to  lift  my  eyes,  started,  drew  my  hands  across  my 
eyes,  looked  again,  and  finally  stood  still  gazing  in  much  astonish- 
ment.    I  saw  distinctly  the  figure  of  a  lady  standing  by  one  of  the 
trees,  bending  low  towards  the  grass.     Her  face  was  a  little  turned 
away,  her  dress  a  bluish  white,  her  mantle  a  dun  brown  colour. 
She  held  a  spade  in  her  hands,  and  her  foot  was  upon  it,  as  if  she- 
was  in  the  act  of  digging.     I  gazed  at  her  for  some  time,  vainly 
trying  to   guess  who  she  might  be,  then  I   advanced   towards, 
her.    As  I  approached,  the  outlines  of  her  figure  broke  up  and 
disappeared,  and  I  found  that  she  was  only  an  illusion  presented 
to  me  by  the  curious  accidental  grouping  of  the  lines  of  two  trees 
which  had  shaped  the  space  between  them  into  the  semblance  of 
the  form  I  have  described.    A  patch  of  the  flowing  water  had  been 
her  robe,  a  piece  of  russet  moorland  her  cloak.     The  spade  was  an 
awkward  young  shoot  slanting  up  from  the  root  of  one  of  the  trees* 
I  stepped  back  and  tried  to  piece  her  out  again  bit  by  bit,  but 
could  not  succeed. 

That  night  I  did  not  feel  at  all  inclined  to  return  to  my  dismal 
chamber,  and  lie  awaiting  such  another  summons  as  I  had  once 
received.    When  Frank  bade  me  good-night,  I  heaped  fresh  coals- 
on  the  fire,  took  down  from  the  shelves  a  book,  from  which  I  lifted 
the  dust  in  layers  with  my  penknife,  and,  dragging  an  armchair 
close  to  the  hearth,  tried  to  make  myself  as  oomfortable  as  might 
be.     I  am  a  strong,  robust  man,  very  unimaginative,  and  little 
troubled  with  affections  of  the  nerves,  but  I  confess  that  my  feel- 
ings were  not  enviable,  sitting  thus  alone  in  that  queer  old  house,, 
with  last  night's  strange  pantomime  still  vividly  present  to  my 
memory.     In  spite  of  my  efforts  at  coolness,  I  was  excited  by  the 
prospect  of  what  yet  might  be  in  store  for  me  before  morning. 


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The  Ghost  at  the  Rath.  63£> 

But  these  feelings  passed  away  as  the  night  wore  on,  and  I  nodded 
asleep  over  my  book. 

I  was  startled  by  the  sound  of  a  brisk  light  step  walking  over- 
head. Wide  awake  at  once,  I  sat  up  and  listened.  The  veiling 
was  low,  but  I  could  not  call  to  mind  what  room  it  was  that  lay 
above  the  library  in  which  I  sat.  Presently  I  heard  the  same  step 
upon  the  stairs,  and  the  sharp  rustling  of  a  silk  dress  sweep- 
ing against  the  banisters.  The  step  paused  at  the  library  door, 
and  then  there  was  silence.  I  got  up,  and  with  all  the  courage  I 
could  summon  seized  a  light,  and  opened  the  door ;  but  there  was 
nothing  in  the  hall  but  the  usual  heavy  darkness  and  damp  mouldy 
air.  I  confess  I  felt  more  uncomfortable  at  that  moment  than  I 
had  done  at  any  time  during  the  preceding  night.  All  the  visions 
that  had  then  appeared  to  me  had  produced  nothing  like  the  horror 
of  thus  feeling  a  supernatural  presence  which  my  eyes  were  not 
permitted  to  behold. 

I  returned  to  the  library,  and  'passed  the  night  there.  Next 
day  I  sought  for  the  room  above  it  in  which  I  had  heard  the  foot- 
steps, but  could  discover  no  entrance  to  any  such  room.  Its  windows 
indeed,  I  counted  from  the  outside,  though  they  were  so  overgrown 
with  ivy  I  could  hardly  discern  them,  but  in  the  interior  of  the 
house  I  could  find  no  door  to  the  chamber.  I  asked  Frank  about 
it,  but  he  knew  and  cared  nothing  on  the  subject ;  I  asked  the  old 
man  at  the  lodge,  and  he  shook  his  head. 

"Och!"  he  said,  "don't  ask  about  that  room.  The  door's 
built  up,  and  flesh  and  blood  have  no  consarn  wid  it.  It  was  her 
own  room." 

"  Whose  own  P  "  I  asked. 

"  Ould  Lady  Thunder's.    An*  whisht,  sir !  that's  her  grave  !  " 

"What  do  you  meanP"  I  said.  "Are  you  out  of  your 
senses  P  " 

He  laughed  queerly,  drew  nearer,  and  lowered  his  voice. 
"  Nobody  has  asked  about  the  room  these  years  but  yourself,"  he 
said.  "  Nobody  misses  it  goin'  over  the  house.  My  grandfather  was 
an  old  retainer  o'  the  Thunder  family,  my  father  was  in  the  service 
too,  an'  I  was  born  myself  before  the  ould  lady  died.  Yon  was 
her  room,  an'  she  left  her  etarnal  curse  on  her  family  if  so  be  they* 
didn't  lave  her  coffin  there.  She  wasn't  goin'  undher  the  ground 
to  the  worms.  So  there  it  was  left,  an'  they  built  up  the  door. 
God  love  ye,  sir,  an'  don't  go  near  it.  I  wouldn't  have  tould  you, 
only  I  know  ye've  seen  plenty  about  already,  an'  ye  have  the  look 
o'  one  that'd  be  ferretin'  things  out,  savin'  yer  presence." 


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«40  The  Ghost  at  the  Rath. 

He  looked  at  me  knowingly,  but  I  gave  him  no  information, 
only  thanked  him  for  putting  me  on  my  guard.  I  could  scarcely 
credit  what  he  told  me  about  the  room ;  but  my  curiosity  was 
excited  regarding  it  I  made  up  my  mind  that  day  to  try  and 
induce  Frank  to  quit  the  place  on  the  morrow.  I  felt  more  and 
more  convinced  that  the  atmosphere  was  not  healthful  for  his  mind, 
whatever  it  might  be  for  his  body.  The  sooner  we  left  the  spot,  I 
"thought,  the  better  for  us  both ;  but  the  remaining  night  which  I 
lad  to  pass  there  I  resolved  on  devoting  to  the  exploring  of  the 
walled-up  chamber.  What  impelled  me  to  this  resolve  I  do  not 
know.  The  undertaking  was  not  a  pleasant  one,  and  I  should 
hardly  have  ventured  on  it  had  I  been  forced  to  remain  much 
longer  at  The  Bath.  But  I  knew  there  was  little  chance  of  sleep 
for  me  in  that  house,  andl  thought  I  might  better  go  and  seek  for 
my  adventures  than  sit  waiting  for  them  to  come  for  me,  as  I  had 
•done  the  night  before.  I  felt  a  relish  for  my  enterprise,  and 
•expected  the  night  with  satisfaction.  I  did  not  say  anything  of 
my  intention  either  to  Frank  or  the  old  man  at  the  lodge.  I  did 
not  want  to  make  a  fuss,  and  have  my  doings  talked  of  all  over 
the  country.  I  may  as  well  mention  here  that  again,  on  this 
•evening,  when  walking  in  the  orchard,  I  saw  the  figure  of  a  lady 
•digging  between  the  trees.  And  again  I  saw  that  this  figure  was 
^n  illusive  appearance ;  that  the  water  was  her  gown,  and  the 
moorland  her  cloak,  and  a  willow  in  the  distance  her  tresses. 

As  soon  as  the  night  was  pretty  far  advanced,  I  placed  a  ladder 
-against  the  window  which  was  least  covered  over  with  the  ivy,  and 
mounted  it,  having  provided  myself  with  a  dark  lantern.  The 
moon  rose  full  behind  some  trees  that  stood  like  m  black  bank 
against  the  horizon,  and  glimmered  on  the  panes  as  I  ripped  away 
branches  and  leaves  with  a  knife,  and  shook  the  old  crazy  casement 
open.  The  sashes  were  rotten,  and  the  fastenings  easily  gave  way. 
I  placed  my  lantern  on  a  bench  within,  and  was  soon  standing 
•beside  it  in  the  chamber.  The  air  was  insufferably  close  and 
mouldy,  and  I  flung  the  window  open  to  the  widest,  and  beat  the 
bowering  ivy  stall  further  back  from  about  it,  so  as  to  let  the  fresh 
.air  of  heaven  blow  into  the  place.  I  then  took  my  lantern  in  hand, 
and  began  to  look  around  me. 

The  room  was  vast  and  double ;  a  velvet  curtain  hung  between 
me  and  an  inner  chamber.  The  darkness  was  thick  and  irksome, 
and  the  scanty  light  of  my  lantern  only  tantalised  me.  My  eyes 
Jell  on  some  grand  spectral-looking  candelabra  furnished  with  wax- 
•candles,  which,  though  black  with  age,  still  bore  the  marks  of 


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The  Ghost  at  the  Bath.  641 

having*  been  guttered  by  a  draught  that  had  blown  on  them 
fifty  years  ago.  I  lighted  these ;  they  burned  up  with  a  ghastly 
flickering,  and  the  apartment,  with  its  fittings,  was  revealed  to  me. 
These  latter  had  been  splendid  in  the  days  of  their  freshness :  the 
appointments  of  the  rest  of  the  house  were  mean  in  comparison. 
The  ceiling  was  painted  with  exquisite  allegorical  figures,  alst 
spaces  of  the  walls  between  the  dim  mirrors  and  the  sumptuous 
hangings  of  crimson  velvet,  with  their  tarnished  golden  tassels  and 
fringes.  The  carpet  still  felt  luxurious  to  the  tread,  and  the  dust 
could  not  altogether  obliterate  the  elaborate  fancy  of  its  flowery 
design.  There  were  gorgeous  cabinets  laden  with  curiosities, 
wonderfully  carved  chairs,  rare  vases,  and  antique  glasses  of  every 
description,  under  some  of  which  lay  little  heaps  of  dust  which 
had  once  no  doubt  been  blooming  flowers.  There  was  a  table  laden 
with  books  of  poetry  and  science,  drawings  and  drawing  materials, 
which  showed  that  the  occupant  of  the  room  had  been  a  person  of 
mind.  There  was  also  a  writing-table  scattered  over  with  yellow 
papers,  and  a  work-table  at  a  window,  on  which  lay  reels,  a  thimble, 
and,a  piece  of  what  had  once  been  white  muslin,  but  was  now 
saffron  colour,  sewn  with  gold  thread,  a  rusty  needle  sticking  in  it. 
This  and  the  pen  lying  on  the  inkstand,  the  paper-knife  between 
the  leaves  of  a  book,  the  loose  sketches  shaken  out  by  the  side  of 
a  portfolio,  and  the  ashes  of  a  fire  on  the  grand  mildewed  hearth- 
place,  all  suggested  that  the  owner  of  this  retreat  had  been 
snatched  from  it  without  warning,  and  that  whoever  had  thought 
proper  to  build  up  the  doors,  had  also  thought  proper  to  touch 
nothing  that  had  belonged  to  her. 

Having  surveyed  all  these  things,  I  entered  the  inner  room,  which 
was  a  bedroom.  The  furniture  of  this  was  in  keeping  with  that 
of  the  other  chamber.  I  saw  dimly  a  bed  enveloped  in  lace,  and 
a  dressing-table  fancifully  decorated  and  draped.  Here  I  espied 
more  candelabra,  and  going  forward  to  set  the  lights  burning,  I 
stumbled  against  something.  I  turned  the  blaze  of  my  lantern  on 
this  something,  and  started  with  a  sudden  thrill  of  horror.  It  was 
a  large  stone  coffin. 

I  own  that  I  felt  very  strangely  for  the  next  few  minutes. 
When  I  had  recovered  the  shock,  I  set  the  wax  candles  burning, 
and  took  a  better  survey  of  this  odd  burial-place.  A  wardrobe 
stood  open,  and  I  saw  dresses  hanging  within.  A  gown  lay  upon 
a  chair,  as  if  just  thrown  off,  and  a  pair  of  dainty  slippers  were 
beside  it.  The  toilet-table  looked  as  if  only  used  yesterday,  judg- 
ing by  the  litter  that  covered  it ;  hair  brushes  lying  this  way  and 
Vol.  xiv.  No.  162.  47 

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642  The  Ghost  at  the  Rath. 

that  way,  essence-bottles  with  the  stoppers  out,  paint  pots  uncovered, 
a  ring  here,  a  wreath  of  artificial  flowers  there,  and  in  front  of  all 
that  coffin,  the  tarnished  cupids  that  bore  the  mirror  between  their 
hands  smirking  down  at  it  with  a  grim  complacency. 

On  the  corner  of  this  table  was  a  small  golden  salver,  holding 
a  plate  of  some  black,  mouldered  food,  an  antique  decanter  filled 
with  wine,  a  glass,  and  a  phial  with  some  thick  black  liquid, 
uncorked.  I  felt  weak  and  sick  with  the  atmosphere  of  the  place, 
and  I  seized  the  decanter,  wiped  the  dust  from  it  with  my  hand- 
kerchief, tasted,  found  that  the  wine  was  good,  and  drank  a 
moderate  draught.  Immediately  it  was  swallowed  I  felt  a  horrid 
giddiness,  and  sank  upon  the  coffin.  A  raging  pain  was  in  my 
head  and  a  sense  of  suffocation  in  my  chest.  After  a  few  intoler- 
able moments  I  felt  better,  but  the  heavy  air  pressed  on  me  stifling, 
and  I  rushed  from  this  inner  room  into  the  larger  and  outer 
chamber.  Here  a  blast  of  cool  air  revived  me,  and  I  saw  that  the 
place  was  changed. 

A  dozen  other  candelabra  besides  those  I  had  lighted  were 
flaming  round  the  walls,  the  hearth  was  all  ruddy  with  a  blazing 
fire,  everything  that  had  been  dim  was  bright,  the  lustre  had 
returned  to  the  gilding,  the  flowers  bloomed  in  the  vases.  A  lady 
was  sitting  before  the  hearth  in  a  low  armchair.  Her  light  loose 
gown  swept  about  her  on  the  carpet,  her  black  hair  fell  round  her 
to  her  knees,  and  into  it  her  hands  were  thrust  as  she  leaned  her 
forehead  upon  them  and  stared  between  them  into  the  fire.  I  had 
scarcely  time  to  observe  her  attitude  when  she  turned  her  head 
quickly  towards  me,  and  I  recognised  the  handsome  face  of  the 
magnificent  lady  who  had  played  such  a  sinister  part  in  the  strange 
scenes  that  had  been  enacted  before  me  two  nights  ago.  I  saw 
something  dark  looming  behind  her  chair,  but  I  thought  it  was 
only  her  shadow  thrown  backward  by  the  firelight. 

She  arose  and  came  to  meet  me,  and  I  recoiled  from  her.  There 
was  something  horridly  fixed  and  hollow  in  her  gaze,  and  filmy 
in  the  stirring  of  her  garments.  The  shadow,  as  she  moved,  grew 
more  firm  and  distinct  in  outline,  and  followed  her  like  a  servant 
where  she  went. 

She  crossed  half  of  the  room,  then  beckoned  me,  and  sat  down 
at  the  writing-table.  The  shadow  waited  beside  her,  adjusted  her 
paper,  placed  the  ink-bottle  near  her  and  the  pen  between  her 
fingers.  I  felt  impelled  to  approach  near  her,  and  to  take  my  place 
at  her  left  shoulder,  so  as  to  see  what  she  might  write.  The 
shadow  stood  at  her  other  hand.    As  I  became  more  accustomed 


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The  Glmt  at  the  Rath.  643 

to  the  shadow's  presence  he  grew  more  loathsome  and  hideous. 
He  was  quite  distinct  from  the  lady,  and  moved  independently  of 
her  with  long,  ugly  limbs.  She  hesitated  about  beginning  to 
write,  and  he  made  a  wild  gesture  with  his  arm,  which  brought 
her  hand  down  quickly  on  the  paper,  and  her  pen  began  to  move 
at  once.  I  needed  not  to  bend  and  scrutinise  in  order  to  read  what 
was  written.  Every  word  as  it  was  formed  flashed  before  me  like 
a  meteor. 

"  I  am  the  spirit  of  Madeleine,  Lady  Thunder,  who  lived  and 
died  in  this  house,  and  whose  coffin  stands  in  yonder  room  among 
the  vanities  in  which  I  delighted.  I  am  constrained  to  make  my 
confession  to  you,  Miles  Thunder,  who  are  the  present  owner  of 
the  estates  of  your  family." 

Here  the  pale  hand  trembled  and  stopped  writing.  But  the 
shadow  made  a  threatening  gesture,  and  the  hand  fluttered  od. 

"  I  was  beautiful,  poor,  and  ambitious,  and  when  I  entered  this 
house  first,  on  the  night  of  a  ball  given  by  Sir  Luke  Thunder,  I 
determined  to  become  its  mistress.  His  daughter,  Mary  Thunder, 
was  the  only  obstacle  in  my  way.  She  divined  my  intention,  and 
stood  between  me  and  her  father.  She  was  a  gentle,  delicate  girl, 
and  no  match  for  me.  I  pushed  her  aside,  and  became  Lady 
Thunder.  After  that  I  hated  her,  and  made  her  dread  me.  I 
had  gained  the  object  of  my  ambition,  but  I  was  jealous  of  the 
influence  possessed  by  her  over  her  father,  and  I  revenged  myself 
by  crushing  the  joy  out  of  her  young  life.  In  this  I  defeated  my 
own  purpose.  She  eloped  with  a  young  man  who  was  devoted  to 
her,  though  poor,  and  beneath  her  in  station.  Her  father  was 
indignant  at  first  and  my  malice  was  satisfied;  but,  as  time 
passed  on,  I  had  no  children,  and  she  had  a  son,  soon  after  whose 
birth  her  husband  died.  Then  her  father  took  her  back  to  his 
heart,  and  the  boy  was  his  idol  and  heir." 

Again  the  hand  stopped  writing,  the  ghostly  head  drooped,  and 
the  whole  figure  was  convulsed.  But  the  shadow  gesticulated 
fiercely,  and  cowering  under  its  menace,  the  wretched  spirit 
went  on : 

"  I  caused  the  child  to  be  stolen  away.  I  thought  I  had  done 
it  cunningly,  but  she  tracked  the  crime  home  to  me.  She  came 
and  accused  me  of  it,  and  in  the  desperation  of  my  terror  at 
discovery,  I  gave  her  poison  to  drink.  She  rushed  from  me  and 
from  the  house  in  frenzy,  and  in  her  mortal  anguish  fell  in  the 
river.  People  thought  she  had  gone  mad  from  grief  for  her  child, 
and  committed  suicide.     I  only  knew  the  horrible  truth.    Sorrow 


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644  The  Ghost  at  the  Hath. 

brought  an  illness  upon  her  father,  of  which  he  died.  Up  to  the 
day  of  his  death,  he  had  search  made  for  the  child.  Believing 
that  it  was  alive,  and  must  be  found,  he  willed  all  his  property  to 
it,  his  rightful  heir,  and  to  its  heirs  for  ever.  I  buried  the  deeds 
under  a  tree  in  the  orchard,  and  forged  a  will,  in  which  all  was 
bequeathed  to  me  during  my  lifetime.  I  enjoyed  my  state  of 
grandeur  till  the  day  of  my  death,  which  came  upon  me  miserably, 
and,  after  that,  my  husband's  possessions  went  to  a  distant'  relative 
of  his  family.  Nothing  more  was  heard  of  the  fate  of  the 
child  who  was  stolen  ;  but  he  lived  and  married,  and  his  daughter 
now  toils  for  her  bread — his  daughter,  who  is  the  rightful  owner 
of  all  that  is  said  to  belong  to  you,  Miles  Thunder.  I  tell  you  this 
that  you  may  devote  yourself  to  the  task  of  discovering  this  wronged 
girl,  and  giving  up  to  her  that  which  you  are  unlawfully  possessed 
of.  Under  the  thirteenth  tree  standing  on  the  brink  of  the  river, 
at  the  foot  of  the  orchard  you  will  find  buried  the  genuine  will  of 
Sir  Luke  Thunder.  When  you  have  found  and  read  it,  do  justice, 
as  you  value  your  soul.  In  order  that  you  may  know  the  grand- 
child of  Mary  Thunder  when  you  find   her,   you   shall  behold 

her  in  a  vision " 

The  last  words  grew  dim  before  me ;  the  lights  faded  away, 
and  all  the  place  was  in  darkness,  except  one  spot  on  the  opposite 
wall.  On  this  spot  the  light  glimmered  softly,  and  against  the 
brightness  the  outlines  of  a  figure  appeared,  faintly  at  first,  but 
growing  firm  and  distinct,  became  filled  in  and  rounded  at  last  to 
the  perfect  semblance  of  life.  The  figure  was  that  of  a  young 
girl  in  a  plain  black  dress,  with  a  bright,  happy  face,  and  pale 
gold  hair  softly  banded  on  her  fair  forehead.  She  might  have 
been  the  twin-sister  of  the  pale-faced  girl  whom  I  had  seen  bend- 
ing over  the  cradle  two  nights  ago,  but  her  healthier,  gladder, 
and  prettier  sister.  When  I  had  gazed  on  her  some  moments,  the 
vision  faded  away  as  it  had  come ;  the  last  vestige  of  the  bright- 
ness died  out  upon  the  wall,  and  I  found  myself  once  more  in 
total  darkness.  Stunned  for  a  time  by  the  sudden  changes,  I  stood 
watching  for  the  return  of  the  lights  and  figures ;  but  in  vain. 
By-and-by  my  eyes  grew  accustomed  to  the  obscurity,  and  I  saw 
the  sky  glimmering  behind  the  little  window  which  I  had  left 
open.  I  could  soon  discern  the  writing-table  beside  me,  and 
possessed  myself  of  the  slips  of  loose  paper  which  lay  upon  it.  I 
then  made  my  way  to  the  window.  The  first  streaks  of  dawn  were 
in  the  sky  as  I  descended  my  ladder,  and  I  thanked  God  that  I 


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The  Ghost  at  the  Rath.  645 

breathed  the  fresh  morning  air  once  more,  and  heard  the  cheering 
sound  of  the  cooks  crowing. 

All  thought  of  acting  immediately  upon  last  night's  strange  reve- 
lations, almost  all  memory  of  them,  was  for  the  time  banished  from 
my  mind  by  the  unexpected  trouble  of  the  next  few  days.  That 
morning  I  found  an  alarming  change  in  Frank.  Feeling  sure 
that  he  was  going  to  be  ill,  I  engaged  a  lodging  in  a  cottage  in  the 
neighbourhood,  whither  we  removed  before  nightfall,  leaving  the 
accursed  Rath  behind  us.  Before  midnight  he  was  in  the  delirium 
of  a  raging  fever. 

I  thought  it  right  to  let  his  poor  little  fiancie  know  his  state, 
and  wrote  to  her,  trying  to  alarm  her  no  more  than  was  neces- 
sary. On  the  evening  of  the  third  day  after  my  letter  went  I 
was  sitting  by  Frank's  bedside,  when  an  unusual  bustle  outside 
aroused  my  curiosity,  and  going  into  the  cottage  kitchen  I  saw  a 
figure  standing  in  the  firelight  which  seemed  a  third  appearance 
of  that  vision  of  the  pale-faced  golden-haired  girl  which  was  now 
thoroughly  imprinted  on  my  memory,  a  third,  with  all  the  woe  of 
the  first ;  and  all  the  beauty  of  the  second.  JBut  this  was  a  living, 
breathing  apparition.  She  was  throwing  off  her  bonnet  and  shawl, 
and  stood  there  at  home  in  a  moment  in  her  plain  black  dress.  I 
drew  my  hand  across  my  eyes  to  make  sure  that  they  did  not 
deceive  me.  I  had  beheld  so  many  supernatural  visions  lately  that 
it  seemed  as  though  I  could  scarcely  believe  in  the  reality  of  any- 
thing till  I  had  touched  it. 

"  Oh,  sir,"  said  the  visitor,  "  I  am  Mary  Leonard,  and  are  you 
poor  Frank's  friend  P  Oh,  sir,  we  are  all  the  world  to  one  another, 
and  I  could  not  let  him  die  without  coming  to  see  him !  " 

And  here  the  poor  little  traveller  burst  into  tears.  I  cheered 
her  as  well  as  I  could,  telling  her  that  Frank  would  soon,  I  trusted, 
be  out  of  all  danger.  She  told  me  that  she  had  thrown  up  her 
situation  in  order  to  come  and  nurse  him.  I  said  we  had  got  a 
more  experienced  nurse  than  she  could  be,  and  then  I  gave  her  to 
the  care  of  our  landlady,  a  motherly  countrywoman.  After  that 
I  went  back  to  Frank's  bedside,  nor  left  it  for  long  till  he  was 
convalescent.  The  fever  had  swept  away  all  that  strangeness  in 
his  manner  which  had  afflicted  me,  and  he  was  quite  himself 
again. 

There  was  a  joyful  meeting  of  the  lovers.  The  more  I  saw  of 
Mary  Leonard's  bright  face  the  more  thoroughly  was  I  convinced 
that  she  was  the  living  counterpart  of  the  vision  I  had  seen  in 
the  burial  chamber.    I  made  inquiries  as  to  her  birth,  and  hex 

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646  The  Stolen  Child. 

father's  history,  and  found  that  she  was  indeed  the  grandchild  of 
that  Mary  Thunder  whose  history  had  been  so  strangely  related  to 
me,  and  the  rightful  heiress  of  all  those  properties  which,  for  a  few 
months  only,  had  been  mine.  Under  the  tree  in  the  orchard,  the 
thirteenth,  and  that  by  which  I  had  seen  the  lady  digging,  were 
found  the  buried  deeds  which  had  been  described  to  me.  I  made 
an  immediate  transfer  of  property,  whereupon  some  others  who 
thought  they  had  a  chance  of  being  my  heirs  disputed  the  matter 
with  me,  and  went  to  law.  Thus  the  affair  has  gained  publicity, 
and  become  a  nine  days'  wonder.  Many  things  have  been  in  my 
favour,  however :  the  proving  of  Mary's  birth  and  of  Sir  Luke's 
will,  the  identification  of  Lady  Thunder's  handwriting  on  the 
slips  of  paper  which  I  had  brought  from  the  burial  chamber ; 
also  other  matters  which  a  search  in  that  chamber  brought  to 
light.  I  triumphed,  and  I  now  go  abroad  leaving  Frank  and  his 
Mary  made  happy  by  the  possession  of  what  could  only  have  been 
a  burden  to  me. 

So  the  MS.  ends.  Major  Thunder  fell  in  battle  a  few  years 
after  the  adventure  it  relates.  Frank  O'Brien's  grandchildren 
hear  of  him  with  gratitude  and  awe.  The  Rath  has  been  long 
since  totally  dismantled  and  left  to  go  to  ruin. 


THE  STOLEN  CHILD. 


WHERE  dips  the  rocky  highland 
Of  Slewth  Wood  in  the  lake, 
There  lies  a  leafy  island 

Where  flapping  herons  wake 
The  drowsy  water  rats ; 
There  we've  hid  our  fairy  vats 
Full  of  berries 

And  of  reddest  stolen  cherries. 
Come  away |  O  human  child  t 
To  the  woods  and  waters  wild 
With  a  fairy |  hand  in  hand, 
For.  the  world's  more  full  of  weeping  than  you  can  understand. 


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The  Stolen  Child.  647 

Where  the  wave  of  moonlight  glosses 

The  dim  grey  sands  with  light, 
Far  off  by  furthest  Rosses 

We  foot  it  all  the  night, 
Weaving  olden  dances, 
Mingling  handsiand  mingling  glances 

Till  the  moon  has  taken  flight ; 
To  and  fro  we  leap 

And  chase  the  frothy  babbles 

While  the  world  is  full  of  troubles 
And  is  anxious  in  its  sleep. 
Come  away,  O  human  child ! 
To  the  woods  and  waters  wild 
With  a  fairy,  hand  in  hand, 
For  the  world's  more  full  of  weeping  than  you  can  understand. 

Where  the  wandering  water  gushes 

From  the  hills  above  Glen-Car, 
In  pools  among  the  rushes 

That  scarce  could  bathe  a  star, 
We  seek  for  slumbering  trout 
And  whispering  in  their  ears 
We  give  them  evil  dreams, 
Leaning  softly  out 
From  ferns  that  drop  their  tears 
Of  dew  on  the  young  streams. 
Come,  O  human  child  I 
To  the  woods  and  waters  wild 
With  a  fairy,  hand  in  hand, 
For  the  world's  more  full  of  weeping  than  you  can  understand. 

Away  with  us  he's  going,     » 

The  solemn-eyed — 
He'll  hear  no  more  the  lowing 

Of  the  calves  on  the  warm  hill  side, 
Or  the  kettle  on  the  hob 

Sing  peace  into  his  breast, 
Or  see  the  brown  mice  bob 

Round  and  round  the  oatmeal  chest 
For  he  comes,  the  human  child, 
To  the  woods  and  waters  wild 
With  a  fairy,  hand  in  hand, 

For  the  world's  more  full  of  weeping  than  be  can  understand. 

W.  R  Ybats. 


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(    648    ) 


ABBE  MAC  CARBON. 

Part  II. 

rE  reader  who  was  most  interested  in  the  sketch  of  this  holy 
young  Irish  priest — his  kinswoman,  the  first  Abbess  of  the 
Poor  Clares  of  Keady,  in  the  Archdiocese  of  Armagh — has,  since  the 
publication  of  the  first  part  in  onr  August  Number,*  closed  a  holy 
life  by  a  happy  death.  As  this  is  the  last  month  of  the  year,  we 
shall  give  briefly  whatever  else  can  be  told  of  a  brief  and  unpre- 
tending career,  that  all  may  be  in  the  same  volume. 

We  had  reached  the  close  of  his  ecclesiastical  training  and 
had  mentioned  that  the  foreign  mission,  assigned  by  his  Superiors 
to  this  Irish  alumnus  of  the  Sociktt  des  Missions  Etrangkres,  was 
British  India ;  and  we  supposed  that  the  reason  of  this  destination 
was  because  the  language  which  he  spoke  could  there  be  turned  to 
the  best  account.  We  have  since  heard  the  remark  made,  that 
England  tried  to  destroy  in  Ireland  the  Irish  language  and  the 
Catholic  faith,  and  that  she  succeeded  as  regards  the  language,  but 
her  very  success  in  this  respect  has  been,  under  God's  providence, 
the  means  of  sustaining  and  spreading  the  Catholic  faith  by  means 
of  Irish  tongues  speaking  the  English  language.  This  idea, 
before  it  was  thus  placed  before  us,  we  had  partly  forestalled  in 
some  words  which  found  their  way  from  a  rural  church  into  a 
local  journal,  and  which  naturally  fall  again  into  their  place  in 
the  present  context : — 

Man j  an  Irish  heart,  and  especially  many  a  young  Irish  heart,  brooding  over 
the  story  of  our  country,  has  wished  that  certain  parts  of  that  story  had  run 
differently.  Some  might  dream  of  an  Ireland  kept  perfectly  isolated  and 
independent — "  proudly  insular,"  as  one  of  our  own  northern  poets  has  pictured 
her  in  almost  the  most  famous  of  Irish  songs — distinct  from  all  the  world  in  her 
laws,  her  customs,  and  her  language.  But  surely  it  is  some  consolation  for  the 
loss  of  our  language  and  of  many  other  things  that  thus  we  are  enabled  to  turn 
into  an  agent  for  the  propagation  of  the  true  faith  and  for  the  promotion  of  the 
interests  of  God's  Church,  that  language  which  is  at  present  the  chief  medium 
of  communication  between  the  civilised  races  of  mankind,  and  whose  world* 
wide  ascendency  is  certain  to  be  increased  in  every  successive  generation,  spoken 
as  it  is  not  only  in  a  couple  of  European  islands,  but  over  the  mighty  continents 
of  Australia  and  North  America.  Celtic  faith  is  the  heaven-appointed  antidote 
for  the  poison  of  Anglican  heresy.    "The  English  language  and  the  Irish  race 

*  Ibisk  Monthly,  Vol.  xiv.  page  446. 

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Abbi  Mac  Catron.  649 

are  overrunning  the  world,"  says  Cardinal  Newman,  "and  this  race,  pre- 
eminently Catholic,  is  at  this  very  time  of  all  tribes  of  the  earth  the  moet 
fertile  in  emigrants  both  to  the  West  and  to  the  South."  Yes,  everywhere  the 
Irish  people,  with  their  Irish  priests  and  Irish  nuns,  are  found — on  the  banks  of 
the  Yarra-Yarra  and  the  Sacramento  rivers,  just  as  at  home  on  the  banks,  of  the 
Lagan,  or  the  Liffey,  or  the  Shannon ;  and  wherever  they  go  they  carry  with 
them  their  Irish  hearts  and  their  Catholic  faith.  The  language  of  Shakspeare, 
so  copious,  so  pliable,  and  so  strong,  is  not  all  given  over  to  the  service  of  heresy, 
scepticism,  infidelity,  and  modern  paganism.  English,  with  an  Irish  accent,  has 
been  the  medium  of  some  of  the  noblest  bursts  of  eloquence  and  of  some  of  the 
sweetest  strains  of  poetry ;  and  in  another  sphere  English  with  an  Irish  accent 
has  been  the  medium  of  some  most  fervent  prayers  that  ever  went  up  from 
earth  to  heaven. 

The  kind  friend,  whose  friendship  is  the  chief  link  between  me 
and  my  subject,  has  procured  for  me  from  the  archives  of  the  Rue 
du  Bac,  several  of  Father  Mac  Carron's  letters  after  his  departure 
from  the  Mother-house.  The  care  with  which  they  have  been 
preserved  is  in  itself  edifying.  The  earliest  of  these  letters  was 
written  on  board  "  The  Said,"  when  nearing  Messina ;  and  the 
next  is  dated  "  Mer  des  Indes,  le  10  Avril,  1886,"  when  they  were 
within  a  day's  sail  of  Ceylon.  Even  writing  to  a  French  Superior, 
he  does  not  forget  to  chronicle  the  circumstance  that  at  Aden  "  un 
soldat  Irish  "  (he  will  not  even  translate  him  into  Irlandais)  gave 
him  a  military  salute,  which  doubtless  he  repaid  with  an  Irish 
smile  and  blessing  that  gladdened  the  poor  soldier's  heart.  The 
letter  of  course  is  in  French,  but  at  the  end  he  says :  "  In  the 
Holy  Sacrifice,  dear,  good  Father,  think  of  poor  little  Mac  qui 
sera  tou jours  votre  enfant  ob&ssant  et  tout  devoue." 

There  is  a  break  of  two  years  in  the  correspondence  as  put  into 
our  hands ;  for  the  next  letter  is  dated  from  Sattiamangulam,  in 
1868,  on  the  Feast  of  Blessed  John  de  Britto,  whose  feast  is  kept 
by  his  brethren  of  the  Society  of  Jesus  on  the  11th  of  February. 
"  I  look  out  (he  writes)  through  the  hole  in  the  wall  which  con- 
stitutes my  door  and  window,  and  I  see  these  thousands  of  poor 
pagans  passing,  and  sometimes  Christians  coming  nearer  to  me. 
It  is  plain  that  something  beyond  the  common  has  happened.  And 
in  fact,  to-day,  for  the  first  time  these  many  years,  a  Catholic 
priest  is  living  at  Sattiamangulam ;  for  the  first  time  within  the 
memory  of  man  [in  another  letter  he  says  64  years],  the  Holy 
Sacrifice  of  the  Mass  has  been  offered  up  in  this  great  city,  formerly 
the  seat  of  a  flourishing  Christian  community,  served  by  the  famous 
Jesuit,  Robert  de  Nobili,*  and  above  all,  by  Blessed  John  de  Britto, 

*  An  extremely  interesting  sketch  of  this  wonderful  Missionary  will  be 
found  at  page  643  of  our  ninth  yearly  volume  (1881). 

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660  Abbi  Mac  Carron. 

whose  feast  is  kept  to-day.  This  morning  at  Mass  my  modest 
chamber  was  full.  All  these  poor  people  have  shown  their  great 
joy  at  having  a 'priest  at  last  amongst  them.  They  are  pre- 
paring to  fulfil  all  their  religious  duties.  On  ground  which  I 
have  obtained  from  the  Head  Assistant-Collector,  Tusciati,  I  am 
going  to  build  a  chapel,  for  which  I  have  already  most  of  the 
materials  and  a  good  deal  of  money.  Besides,  Wellington  station 
is  only  forty  miles  distant,  and  there  are  Irish  soldiers  there  who 
will  not  let  me  run  short  of  money,  especially  if  I  tell  them  that 
the  cliapel  will  be  dedicated  to  St.  Patrick."  Further  on  in  his 
letter  he  tells  his  correspondent,  who  seems  to  have  suffered  a  little 
from  "  Anglomanie,"  "  You  could  never  believe  how  they  hate 
us,  these  wretched  Protestants.  Not  being  able  to  convert  adults, 
they  rob  us  of  our  children.,,  Has  that  magnanimous  policy  ever 
been  thought  of  in  Kingstown  or  the  Coombe,  I  wonder  P  And 
then  he  attacks  a  point  which  the  late  warm-hearted  Limerick- 
man,  Mr.  J.  F.  Goulding  of  London,  made  the  subject  of  a  special 
brochure.  "  In  your  last  missionary  report,  in  speaking  of  the 
Gorea,  it  is  said  that  England  was  formerly  called  the  Island  of 
Saints.  This  is  a  mistake.  I  could  give  you  a  dozen  authorities, 
if  necessary,  but  I  will  content  myself  with  the  fifth  lesson  in  the 
Roman  Breviary  for  the  Feast  of  St.  Patrick.  It  was  Erin,  not 
England,  that  was  called  Insula  Sanctorum." 

Among  the  letters  preserved  by  O'Connell,  we  have  found  a 
very  long  one  addressed  to  him  from  India,  by  Captain  Archibald 
Chisholm,  whose  name  will  have  more  interest  for  our  readers 
when  it  is  mentioned  that  his  wife  was  Mrs.  Caroline  Chisholm, 
whose  benevolent  labours  for  the  destitute  of  her  sex  ought  not  to 
be  forgotten.  Their  daughter  is  married  to  Mr.  Dwyer  Gray,  the 
proprietor  of  our  great  Irish  newspaper,  The  Freeman's  Journal. 
Though  the  letter  in  which  Captain  Chisholm  appealed  to  O'Connell 
to  exert  his  mighty  influence  in  favour  of  Catholic  soldiers  in  India, 
was  written  more  than  twenty  years  before  Father  Mac  Carron 
became  an  Indian  army  chaplain,  many  of  the  hardships  and 
shortcomings  that  he  describes  prevailed  still,  though  no  doubt 
much  improvement  also  had  taken  place. 

We  can  neither  translate  nor  abridge  an  extremely  long  letter 
which  Father  Mac  Carron  addressed  in  March,  1869,  to  the  Director 
of  the  Society,  Pere  Eousseille,  in  which  he  gives  an  account  of 
many  important  conversions,  and  describes  the  opening  of  his  new 
church.  During  his  building  difficulties,  he  explains :  "  Si  j'avais 
quelques  Irlandais,  9a  marcherait."    Yes ;  all  would  go  well  if  he 

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Abbt  Mae  Catron.  651 

had  but  a  few  sturdy,  faithful  Irishmen.     So  it  is,  thank  God,  in 
many  a  corner  of  God's, world- wide  Church. 

After  zealous  labours  at  Sattiamangulam  and  Coimbatore, 
Father  Mac  Garron  was  removed  to  the  important  military  station, 
already  mentioned  in  one  of  his  letters,  Wellington,  in  the  Nilgiri 
Hills,  where  with  his  warm  Irish  heart  and  his  unwearied  zeal  he 
worked  wonders  among  the  soldiers,  who  without  such  helps,  would 
be  exposed  to  so  many  dangers,  poor  fellows.  The  only  letter 
before  us  which  bears  "  Wellington  "  as  its  date  refers  to  a  visit 
which  Father  Mac  Carron  paid,  in  June,  1880,  to  Madras,  to  preach 
at  the  month's  mind  of  the  Bishop,  Dr.  Stephen  Fennelly,  whom 
we  were  about  to  describe  as  having  been  formerly  Bursar  of 
Maynooth  College,  but  on  referring  to  the  College  Calendar  we 
find  that  this  was  his  brother  John,  who  preceded  him  in  the  See 
of  Madras,  and  by  whose  side  he  is  buried.  We  may  cite  a  few 
words  from  the  beginning  and  from  the  end  of  this  oraisonfunSbre 
which  was  printed  in  the  form  of  a  pamphlet : — 

It  is  now  about  fifty  years  since  Emancipation  was  granted.  Henceforward 
the  Catholics  of  India  were  no  .longer  slaves ;  they  were  relieved  from  some 
of  the  most  galling  and  most  unjust  of  the  terrible  penal  laws,  they  might  now 
aspire  to  place  and  preferment.  One  great  barrier  still  existed :  they  were  not 
educated,  and  without  education  they  could  not  hope  for  Government  employ, 
nor  rise  to  social  position.  At  that  time  there  were  no  Catholic  establishments 
of  education  in  Madras  worth  mentioning.  The  sad  consequence  of  this  was 
that  the  Catholics  of  Madras  frequented  non-Catholic  schools,  read  non-Catholic 
books,  said  non-Catholic  prayers ;  in  a  word,  they  were  Catholics  only  in  name. 
Such  was  the  state  of  the  Catholics  in  Madras  when  a  band  of  young  Missionaries 
arrived  from  Ireland.  There  was  something  fitting,  might  I  not  say  providential, 
that  they  came  from  a  nation  that  had  suffered  for  its  faith  well-nigh  three 
hundred  years — a  nation  that  had  suffered  for  the  cause  of  religion  and  of  truth 
more  than  any  other  under  the  sun,  and  that  they  could  thus  show,  as  it  were, 
in  their  own  persons  that  it  would  be  better  to  lose  everything,  to  suffer  every- 
thing, rather  than  abandon  the  Catholic  Church.  At  their  head  was  a  fine  tall 
man,  of  stately  majestic  appearance,  in  the  prime  of  life.  He  had  been  on  the 
staff  of  professors  .of  the  College  of  Maynooth,  which  has  produced  so  many 
celebrated  and  learned  men.  He  was  a  scholar,  remarkable  for  his  grand  and 
imposing  eloquence,  for  his  stirring  and  vigorous  writings,  and  perhaps  more  than 
all  for  his  intense  love  for  his  dear  people  of  Madras.  Such  was  the  man  who, 
with  his  faithful  companions,  was  selected  to  raise  the  people  of  this  city  and 
mission  from  the  miserable  state  in  which  oppression  and  ignorance  had  placed 
them,  and  to  put  them  in  a  condition  worthy  of  their  numbers  and  respectability. 
Need  I  mention  his  nameP  He  has  been  truly  called  "The  0*Connell"  of 
India.  As  long  as  the  Catholic  Church  exists  in  Madras,  and  that  will  be  to 
the  end  of  time,  thd  name  of  Br.  John  Fennelly  will  be  remembered,  loved 
and  esteemed. 

Amongst  the  youthful  band  that  Dr.  John  brought  from  Ireland  was  his 

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652  Abbi  Mac  Carron. 

brother,  Father  Stephen,  whose  lorn  we  now  deplore,  and  whose  memory  we  are 
assembled  to  commemorate.  Father  Stephen  had  always  been  of  the  most 
gentle  disposition ;  his  great  characteristic  was  his  quiet  conciliatory  manner. 
Haying  made  himself  proficient  in  some  of  the  languages  of  the  country,  he  was 
called  to  the  important  offices  of  Vicar-General  to  his  brother.  It  thereby 
became  his  duty  to  be  his  adviser  in  all  matters  of  importance.  He  became  the 
ruling  spirit  of  the  mission  ;  henceforward  the  two  brothers  were  to  go  hand  in 
hand  in  the  administration  of  the  mission ;  they  were  to  be  one,  so  that  what 
may  be  said  of  the  one  may,  generally  speaking,  be  said  of  the  other. 

After  describing  the  convents  and  orphanages  established  by  the 
two  holy  brothers,  the  preacher  spoke  of  the  death  of  the  first 
bishop,  and  quoted  the  striking  remarks  of  a  foreign  bishop,  who 
wrote  to  Borne,  recommending  Dr.  Stephen  Fennelly  as  his 
successor :  "  Father  Stephen  Fennelly  has  only  one  fault,  he  is 
his  brother's  brother."  After  tracing  the  course  of  his  episcopal 
labours  from  1868  to  1880,  Father  Mac  Carron  ends  with  these 
pious  apostrophes : — 

O  Eternal  Prince  of  Pastors,  Divine  Jesus,  may  we  beseech  Thee,  before 
concluding,  to  grant  to  this  afflicted  church  a  pastor,  one  like  to  him  who  has 
been  taken  away  one  ever  zealous  for  the  beauty  of  Thy  worship,  and  who  will 
be  in  heart  and  soul  and  mind  one  with  Thy  people  f  And  you,  pious  and 
venerable  prelate,  if  as  we  hope  and  pray  you  are  already  in  the  bosom  of  God, 
if  you  are  already  in  the  enjoyment  of  the  everlasting  fruit  of  so  many  good 
works ;  if  you  already  reap  the  benedictions  you  have  sown  here  below,  oh ! 
look  down  favourably  on  the  lamentations  of  this  afflicted  people ;  may  the 
sacred  ties  that  united  you  to  them  during  life  never  perish.  Choose  yourself 
from  amongst  the  sacred  treasury  a  Pontiff  who  will  continue  your  holy  tradi- 
tions, one  who  will  be  a  faithful  follower  of  the  noble  line  of  Bishops  who  have 
governed  this  mission  for  the  last  fifty  years ;  may  their  every  want  and  aspiration 
find  in  you  the  ever  faithful  friend  even  in  the  bosom  of  eternity. 

You  are  gone  from  us,  O  holy  and  venerable  pastor  and  friend ;  you  have 
left  us  in  sorrow  and  sadness,  but  we  hope  and  pray  that  you  are  already  in 
Heaven  receiving  the  reward  due  to  your  noble  virtues.  You  will  not  forget 
your  loving  but  disconsolate  children  you  have  left  behind,  but  from  your 
throne  of  glory  you  will  still  continue  to  pray  for  them  and  to  protect  them. 
Adieu,  then,  O  beloved  and  venerable  Pastor  of  our  souls,  adieu.  In  paying 
you  this  last  tribute  of  our  reverence  and  respect,  we  promise  you  that  which 
we  know  is  dearest  to  your  heart,  that  for  which  you  spent  your  whole  life  in 
our  service,  that  we  will  continue  to  walk  in  the  way  of  virtue  and  religion 
which  by  word  and  example  you  have  taught  us ;  that  we  will  continue  to  be 
zealous  in  the  cause  of  Holy  Church  and  in  every  good  work,  that,  as  before, 
so  shall  we  remain  attentive  and  regular  to  the  duties  and  sacraments  of  our 
holy  faith,  so  that  we  may  live  and  die  like  you  in  the  love  and  services  of  our 
Divine  Lord  and  Master,  and  that,  when  the  end  comes,  we  may  meet  again, 
Father  and  children,  never  more  to  separate  but  to  rejoice  together  with  the  very 
joy  of  God  throughout  all  eternity. 


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Rebecca  at  the  Well.  653 

Take  up  then,  O  sad  and  afflicted  Church,  your  chant  of  lamentation,  which 
I  have  interrupted.  Weep  over  the  ashes  of  the  faithful  and  holy  Bishop  who 
has  been  taken  away  from.  you.  And  you,  Priests  of  the  Lord,  join  in  one 
solemn  supplication  to  Heaven,  so  that  if  any  human  frailty  still  retain  in  expia- 
tion the  soul  of  the  Pontiff  whom  we  lament,  it  may  be  perfectly  purified,  and 
he  may  enter  without  delay  into  the  habitation  of  everlasting  glory.    Amen. 

When  Father  Mac  Carron  was  taking  his  part  in  these  funeral 
ceremonies,  he  had  no  idea,  however  well  he  may  have  made  the 
meditation  on  death,  that  he  would  himself  die  in  a  year  in  that 
city  in  which  he  was  then  merely  a  visitor.  While  travelling 
from  Goonoor  to  Wellington,  he  caught  a  severe  cold  which  brought 
on  rheumatic  fever  of  a  malignant  type  and  affected  his  heart. 
The  physicians  of  Wellington  ordered  him  home,  and  on  his  way 
— taking  courage,  no  doubt,  from  the  hope  that  Irish  air  would 
set  him  right — he  had  reached  Madras  and  chosen  his  steamer, 
when  he  fell  ill  again,  and  died  on  the  25th  of  July,  1881,  aged 
38  years.  His  body  lies  in  the  cemetery  of  St.  Boque,  and  his 
soul  is  in  the  merciful  hands  of  the  Saviour  whose  name  he 
longed  to  make  known  to  Indian  pagans,  and  whose  love  and 
faith  he  strove  to  keep  alive  in  the  hearts  of  poor  Irish  soldiers  in 
India.  God  bless  them,  and  God  rest  the  soul  of  Father  James 
Mac  Carron ! 


REBECCA  AT  THE  WELL. 

"D  ENEATH  the  burning  Syrian  sun, 
*-*    By  thirst  and  languor  tried, 
The  Patriarch's  servant  journeyed  on 
To  seek  his  master's  bride. 

When  near  the  goal,  with  prayerful  voice, 

He  lifts  his  suppliant  hands ; 
And  seeks  a  sign  to  guide  his  choice 

As  by  the  well  he  stands. 

"  Lord,  Thou  hast  sped  my  feet,  Thy  light 

Hath  led  me  o'er  the  plain : 
Guide  now  my  closing  steps  aright, 

Nor  let  my  search  be  Tain." 

The  prayer  a  speedy  answer  brought 
From  Him,  who  keeps  His  own; 

And  by  the  very  sign  he  sought 
The  destined  bride  is  shown. 


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654  Rebecca  at  the  Well. 

She  comes  in  youthful  beauty,  fair 

As  flowerets  of  the  Spring, 
To  man  and  beast  with  tender  care 

The  cooling  draught  to  bring. 

The  comely  face,  the  gentle  voice, 

The  tender  nature  prove 
The  maiden  of  his  master's  choice. 

The  bride  of  Isaac's  love. 

Oh !  still  with  laden  heart,  and  mind 

By  doubt  and  anguish  tried, 
Men  journey  on  their  way  to  find 

The  Master's  Virgin  Bride. 

They  seek  the  Bride,  the  Mother  blest, 

The  home  of  light  and  peace, 
Who  gives  the  weary  wanderer  rett, 

And  bids  his  trouble  cease. 

Yet  oft,  when  near  the  promised  land, 

They  halt  in  doubt  and  fear, 
And  trembling  on  the  threshold  stand, 

Nor  deem  their  Mother  near. 

Then,  let  them  seek  His  heavenly  light, 

Who  aids  when  all  is  vain, 
Who  led  His  servant's  steps  aright 

Across  the  Syrian  plain. 

And  oh  I  to  make  their  souls  rejoice, 

And  bring  them  in  the  fold, 
Speak,  Master,  with  Thy  mighty  voice 

As  Laban  spoke  of  old ! 

Speak  to  their  heart  that  cheering  word, 

To  scatter  fear  and  doubt, 
"  Gome  in,  thou  blessed  of  the  Lord  :* 

Why  standest  thou  without  ?  " 

W.  H.  Kent,  O.S.C. 

*  Genesis,  xxiv,  31. 


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(     655    ) 


LITTLE  JACK  AND  THE  CHRISTMAS  PUDDING. 
By  M.  E.  Francis. 


"  TyrOTHER,"  said  Jack  Phillips,  "when  are  you  going  to 
15lL     make  our  pudding  for  to-morrow  P  " 

At  this  important  question  his  sister,  Maggie,  who  was  in  the 
act  of  wiping  her  freshly- washed  face  on  the  round  towel  in  the 
corner  of  the  room,  came  trotting  briskly  up  with  her  rosy  cheeks 
still  moist  and  shining,  and  a  world  of  eager  inquiry  in  her  eyes. 
But  Mrs.  Phillips  looked  at  them  somewhat  sadly,  and  shook  her 
head. 

"  Children,"  she  said,  after  a  pause,  "  I  know  you'll  be  dread- 
fully disappointed,  but  I'm  afraid  we  can't  have  any  pudding 
to-morrow.  I  haven't  the  money  to  buy  anything  to  make  it 
with." 

"  Oh,  mother ! "  cried  poor  little  Jack  (and  Maggie  joined  in 
also  with  a  long-drawn  oh  !  of  indescribable  woe).  "  No  pudding 
on  Christmas  Day !  " 

"  Come,  deary,  be  sensible,"  returned  Mrs.  Phillips,  patting 
Jack's  shoulder  encouragingly.  "  You  know  as  well  as  I  do  how 
poor  we  are  this  winter.  What  with  times  being  so  hard  every- 
where, and  my  poor  hand  being  so  bad  in  the  autumn,  you  know 
I  can  hardly  get  work  enough  to  keep  us  alive  at  all.  And 
then  there's  the  rent  to  be  paid,  and  the  school-pence — I'm  behind- 
hand with  them  as  it  is,  and  the  doctor's  bill — though  how  I  am 
ever  to  pay  that  I  don't  know.  Think  of  all  that  has  to  be  done 
and  how  little  money  there  is  to  do  it  with,  and  you  11  see  for  your- 
self that  I  couldnVgo  and  buy  flour,  and  raisins,  and  eggs,  and 
everything  that's  wanted  for  a  pudding." 

Jack  was  silent.  He  loved  his  mother  and  would  not  grieve 
her  by  grumbling,  but  her  decision  about  the  pudding  was  a  cruel 
disappointment  to  him.  He  was  a  thorough  little  Briton,  bluff 
and  sturdy,  somewhat  chary  of  his  A'*  too  (though  for  the  sake  of 
the  prejudices  of  my  little  Irish  readers,  I  will  not  reproduce  the 
peculiarities  of  his  pronunciation),  and  to  him  it  seemed  that 
plum-pudding  was  a  part  and  parcel  of  Christmastime — in  fact,  he 
could  not  imagine  thow  it  would  be  possible  to  spend  the  morrow 

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656  Little  Jack  and  the  Christmas  Pudding. 

without  it.  As  for  Maggie,  she  did  not  attempt  to  conceal  her 
disgust,  and  broke  into  loud  lamentations,  which  ended  in  a  burst 
of  tears. 

It  was  not  that  they  were  exceptionally  greedy — these  children, 
but  this  annual  pudding  was  the  one  "  treat "  of  their  lives,  to 
which  they  always  looked  forward.  Mrs.  Phillips  found  it  hard 
work  at  the  best  of  times  to  make  ends  meet,  and  had  never  been 
able  to  afford  her  children  luxuries.  They  had  no  toys  at  Christ- 
mas, therefore,  and  even  the  pennyworth  of  "  green  "  with  which 
their  neighbours  adorned  their  rooms  was  denied  to  them ;  but 
they  always  had  a  pudding,  and  when  they  sat  with  mother  at  their 
little  table,  and  she  smilingly  dispensed  to  them,  large  platefuls  of 
the  luscious  compound,  Jack  and  Maggie  clapped  their  hands  with 
glee,  and  felt  that  "  the  Queen  even  "  could  not  be  happier  than 
they  were. 

But  this  year  there  was  to  be  no  pudding !  Mother  said  so, 
and  of  course  she  was  right,  but  Christmas  would  not  be  Christmas 
without  it  all  the  same.  Jack  felt  a  lump  rise  in  his  throat,  and 
his  face  was  redder  than  usual,  as  he  buttoned  up  his  jacket  and 
put  on  his  cap,  preparatory  to  setting  out  on  an  errand  for  his 
mother. 

"  Four-and-sixpence  it'll  be,"  said  Mrs.  Phillips,  after  an 
abstruse  calculation  on  her  fingers.  "Now  Jack,  be  careful  of 
the  money,  mind !  Don't  lose  it,  whatever  you  do,  for  it  is  wanted 
badly,  every  penny  of  it,  and  that'll  have  to  keep  us  going  till 
next  week." 

"I'm  not  likely  to  lose  it,  mother,"  said  Jack,  a  little  sulkily; 
for  after  the  heroic  manner  in  which  he  had  taken  his  disappoint- 
ment, it  seemed  hard  to  be  spoken  to  as  if  he  were  a  baby. 

"  Now,  make  haste/'  cried  Mrs.  Phillips,  "  and  don't  forget  to 
tell  Miss  Thompson  I'm  at  her  service  if  ever  she  wants  little  odd 
jobs  done.  " 

At  her  service,  poor  soul !  How  ill  the  words  expressed  her 
eager  longing  for  work  of  any  sort  or  kind  that  might  bring  bread 
to  those  little  hungry  mouths,  and  pay  the  rent,  that  every  week 
made  such  a  hole  in  her  scanty  store. 

Jack  clattered  down  flight  after  flight  of  the  narrow,  crooked 
stairs ;  their  lodging  was  so  high  up  that  older  legs  than  his  would 
have  ached  before  they  reached  the  bottom,  but  his  small,  thick- 
soled  boots,  with  their  big  nails  and  their  many  patches,  trotted 
briskly  down,  and  at  last  arrived  with  a  thud  on  the  pavement 
below.    It  was  a  very  gloomy,  dirty-looking  street  that  they  lived 


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Little  Jack  and  the  Christmas  Pudding.  65? 

in,  bat  Jack's  way  lay  through  brighter  ones,  foil  of  shops  all  a 
glitter  with  Christmas  fineries,  while  he  was  constantly  jostled  by 
hawkers  of  holly  and  ivy,  the  sight  of  which  made  his  poor  little 
sore  heart  feel  sorer  stilL 

"  Everybody's  keeping  Christmas  except  us,"  muttered  Jack, 
as  he  saw  children  running  up  with  their  pennies,  and  receiving 
in  exchange  armfuls  of  shining  green  branches.  "  Other  folks  has 
everything  and  we've  nothing — no  nothing!  I  wish  it  wasn't 
Christmas  at  all ;  for  I'm  sure  it  won't  seem  like  Christmas  a  bit 
without  no  pudding/' 

Poor  little  Jaok,  with  that  sore  feeling  in  his  heart,  and  that 
big  lump  in  his  throat,  he  could  not  be  expected  to  mind  his  gram- 
mar—could he  P  He  trudged  on  till  he  came  to  a  quiet  street,  a 
little  way  down  which  was  the  house  he  sought.  He  rang  at  the 
bell,  and  after  a  few  minutes  the  door  was  opened  by  a  stout,  red- 
faced  cook,  with  her  apron  thrown  over  her  arms  to  hide  the  fact 
that  her  sleeves  were  rolled  up  to  the  elbow. 

"  I  want  to  see  Miss  Thompson,  please  'm,"  said  Jack,  diffi- 
dently. 

"  Miss  Thompson's  got  company  and  can't  see  no  one,"  returned 
the  cook,  pulling  down  her  apron  with  a  contemptuous  air — it  was 
not  worth  her  while  to  keep  up  appearances  for  such  a  very 
unimportant  person  as  Jack. 

11  Please 'm,"  said  our  little  friend,  "I'm  Mrs.  Phillips'  little 
boy,  and  I'm  come  for  the  money  that  Miss  Thompson  owes  her." 

"  Oh,  the  charwoman  !  "  cried  the  cook, .with  a  sniff.  "Why 
didn't  you  say  so  before  ?  Miss  Thompson  left  the  money  for  you 
in  the  kitching.    You'd  better  come  and  fetch  it." 

Jack  followed  her  meekly  to  the  back  regions,  and  the  woman, 
pointing  to  a  little  pile  of  silver  on  the  dresser,  bade  him  politely 
"  take  it  and  be  off — she  couldn't  waste  her  time  with  him  all 
day." 

"  Mother  said,"  observed  Jack,  pausing,  cap  in  hand,  at  the 
door ;  "as  I  was  to  tell  Miss  Thompson perticklar,  that  she  was  at 
her  service  if  she  wanted  any  odd  jobs  done." 

'•Did  she  P  "  was  the  saroastio  retort.  "Well,  she  ain't  here, 
so  I  don't  know  how  you're  to  tell  her— do  you  ?  " 

"  P'raps  you'd  be  so  kind  as  to  tell  her,"  pleaded  poor  little 
Jack. 

"P'raps  111  do  nothing  of  the  sort,"  replied  cook.  "I've 
something  better  to  do  than  to  be  giving  your  messages." 

Dear,  dear !    Cook  certainly  was  raspy f  as  the  children  say ; 
Vol.  xzt.  No*  162.  n  48     T 

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<558  IAttk  Jack  and  the  Christmas  Pudding. 

but  she  was  overworked  at  Christmas  time  (or  so  she  thought),  and 
this  was  her  excuse. 

Jack  was  turning  to  go,  when  he  chanced  to  look  down  at  the 
money  in  his  hand,  and  it  struck  him  all  at  once  there  was  some- 
thing wrong  about  it.  Mother  had  said  four-and-six — there  was 
no  sixpence  here ;  only  a  two-shilling  piece  and  two  shillings. 

."  I'm  sorry  to  trouble  you,"  said  he,  politely,  "  but  mother 
told  me  it  was  four-and-six,  and  there  is  but  four  shillin'  here." 

"  Drat  the  boy ! "  cried  cook,  with  asperity.  "  I'm  sure  I  gave 
the  money  to  you  as  Missus  gave  it  to  me.  She  did  say  something 
about  four-and-six,  too,"  she  muttered,  half  to  herself.  "  It  must 
have  rolled  off  the  dresser  or  else  you've  dropped  it/'  she  said 
aloud,  "  you'd  better  look  for  it  if  you're  so  particklar  as  all  that 
— some  people  is  near ! " 

"Sixpence  is  sixpence,"  returned  Jack,  with  his  British 
commonsense,  as  he  dropped  on  his  hands  and  knees  on  the  floor. 

While  he  was  hunting  about  in  this  lowly  position,  the  door 
was  suddenly  thrown  open,  and  a  troop  of  noisy,  merry  children 
came  clattering  in. 

"  We've  come  to  stir  the  pudding,"  they  cried.  "  Aunt  Jane 
says  we  may  stir  the  pudding !  " 

"To  be  sure,"  returned  cook,  who  was  now  radiant  with 
smiles. 

Jack  knit  his  brows,  and  felt  more  bitter  than  ever — last  year 
he  and  Maggie  had  helped  mother  to  stir  their  pudding — it  was 
half  the  fun  they  said.  He  was  glad  when  he  at  last  spied  his 
sixpence  and  was  able  to  get  away. 

"  I  wonder  why  God  makes  things  so  uneven  like,"  he  said  to 
himself,  as  he  turned  his  steps  homewards.  "  They've  got  so  many 
things — these  children.  Toys  and  warm  clothes,  and — and  a 
Chr&tmas  tree  maybe,  and  we  haven't  even  got  a  pudding.  I 
don't  think,"  said  Jack,  shaking  his  head,  "as  it  seems  fair 
somehow ! " 

His  meditations  were  all  at  once  brought  to  an  abrupt  con- 
clusion ;  for,  as  he  was  passing  a  baker's  shop,  he  caught  sight  of 
something  in  the  window  that  almost  took  his  breath  away.  In 
the  middle  of  the  array  of  cakes,  and  "  bun-loaves,"  and  crusty 
rolls,  was  a  large,  flat  dish  on  which  were  set  forth  certain  thick 
dark  slabs,  the  very  sight  of  which  made  Jack's  mouth  water. 
Above  was  a  placard  with  the  following  announcement :  "  Season- 
able !  Genuine  Plum  Pudding,  twopence  a  slice  ! " 

Now,  was  not  this  a  strange  thing  ?    Just  as  Jack  wasponder- 


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Little  Jack  and  the  Chrietma*  Pudding.  659 

ing  so  sadly,  here  was  the  very  object  of  his  longings  within  Iris 
Teach. 

"  Only  tuppence  a  slice! "  he  cried,  rapturously.  "Sixpence 
for  the  three — mother  wouldn't  think  that  too  dear.  If  she  only 
knew  we  could  get  our  pudding  so  cheap  how  pleased  she'd  be. 
Ill  run  and  tell  her " 

He  was  starting  off  when  a  sudden  thought  struck  him.  He 
was  still  at  some  distance  from  home,  and  even  if  his  mother  were 
in  when  he  returned,  it  would  take  a  considerable  time  before  she 
•could  be  on  the  spot  to  effect  this  important  purchase ;  and  suppose 
in  the  meantime,  other  people  were  to  come  and  carry  off  all  the 
pudding !  It  was  so  cheap  that  might  easily  happen.  Would  it 
not  be  better  to  take  the  responsibility  on  himself  and  secure  the 
treasure  at  all  risks  P 

Acting  on  this  impulse  he  entered  the  shop,  and  after  a  few 
minutes,  emerged,  bearing  a  paper-bag  in  which  three  of  the 
■delectable  slabs  were  stowed  away.  He  trotted  on  'now,  with 
sparkling  eyes.  How  pleased  mother  would  be,  and  what  a  surprise 
it  would  be  for  Maggie. 

"  Hurrah  ! "  he  thought,  as  he  hurried  along.  "  It  mil  be 
.something  like  Christmas  after  all." 


II. 

As  he  was  turning  the  corner  of  a  street,  he  came  suddenly  in 
contact  with  a  poorly-dressed  woman  who  was  carrying  a  large 
basket. 

"  My  Pudding  !  "  cried  Jack,  holding  hie  treasure  aloft,  as  the 
woman  pushed  him  on  one  side.  "  Whatever  you  do,  don't  crush 
my  pudding/' 

"Pudding,  indeed,"  she  retorted,  bitterly.  "Well  for  you 
that  can  afford  such  things.  But  you  needn't  brag  about  it  to  me, 
who  haye  enough  to  do  to  keep  body  and  soul  together." 

She  passed  on,  and  Jack  stood  still,  suddenly  sobered.  The 
woman's  words  had  set  him  thinking,  for  they  reminded  him  ofjwhat 
his  mother  had  said  in  the  morning.  Gould  they  afford  it  any 
more  than  that  poor  woman.  Mother  had  said  not,  to  be  sure, 
2mt  then  she  didn't  know  how  cheap  this  particular  pudding  was. 

u  Jack,  whatever  you  do,  be  careful  of  the  money  .  .  .  it's 


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660  Little  Jack  and  the  Christmas  Pudding. 

badly  wanted  every  penny  of  it  .  .  . "  Again  her  word*  came- 
back  to  him — and  he  had  taken  on  himself  to  spend  six  pennies  ! 

All  of  a  sadden  Jack  seemed  to  see  things  in  a  different 
light,  and  was  filled  with  remorse.  What  right  had  he  to  spend 
his  mother's  hard-earned  money  without  leave  ?  What  would  she- 
say  when  he  told  her  P  Perhaps  she  would  never  trust  him  again. 
Looking  very  anxious  and  crest-fallen,  he  retraced  his  steps  and 
soon  found  himself  in  the  baker's*shop  again.  It  was  now  almost 
one  o'clock,  and  there  were  a  good  many  people  standing  about,, 
discussing  rolls  and  new  milk,  in  which,  at  this  time  of  day,  the 
owners  of  the  shop  did  a  brisk  trade.  Jack,  nothing  daunted,, 
pushed  his  way  up  to  the  counter  and  addressed  the  smiling, 
good-humoured-looking  "lady'1  who  had  served  him  with  the- 
pudding. 

"  Please'm,"  he  began,  with  his  usual  formula.  "  I  bought 
this  here  pudding  about  five  minutes  ago,  and  please,  I've  come 
to  ask  you  if  you  would  be  so  good  as  to  take  it  back  and  give  me 
my  sixpence  again." 

"Well,  I  never!  "  exclaimed  the  shopwoman,  raising  up  her 
eyes  and  hands  at  this  extraordinary  request. 

"I  haven't  touched  it  indeed,"  said  little  Jack,  earnestly.. 
"See,  it's  just  as  you  put  it  in  the  bag  yourself .  Oh!  if  you. 
would  please — for  it  was  mother's  money  and  I  had  no  right  to 
spend  it  at  all." 

"  Well  really,  don't  you  think  you  are  a  very  dishonest  little 
boyP"  returned  the  woman  somewhat  severely,  and  several  of 
the  customers  turned  round  to  look  at  him. 

"  I  didn't  go  for  to  do  wrong,"  whimpered  poor  Jack.  "  I 
bought  it  'cause  it  looked  so  good,  and  it  seemed  so  cheap,  and  I 
thought  mother  wouldn't  mind.  But  I've  been  thinking  since 
how  poor  we  are,  and  how  mother  said  as  she  wanted  the  money 
badly,  as  I  was  bringing  it  home  to  her,  and  oh !  "  cried  the  little 
fellow,  with  a  burst  of  tears,  "  she'll  be  so  grieved  if  she  thinks, 
she  can't  trust  me  no  more !  Good  lady,  if  you  would  only  take 
it  back!" 

"  Well,  well,"  in  mollified  tones.  "  Hand  it  over,  and  let  me- 
see  if  it  is  all  right." 

Jack  complied,  and  stood  anxiously  watching,  while  the  dark*, 
greasy  slices  of  pudding  were  drawn,  one  by  one,  from  the  bag,, 
and  laid  on  a  plate.  They  were  as  unlike  "  genuine  plum-pud- 
ding "  as  chalk  is  to  cheese,  but  to  him  they  appeared  delicious  in. 


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Little  Jack  and  the  Christmas  Puddipg.  661 

the  extreme,  and  he  could  not  retrain  from  heaving  a  deep  sigh 
at  the  thought  of  giving  them  up* 

"  111  tell  you  what,"  said  the  shopwoman,  marking  this  expres- 
sion of  regret.  "  I'll  let  you  have  it  for  half-price,  as  you  seem 
to  want  it  so  badly — the  poor  child  does  seem  to  long  for  it,"  she 
remarked  to  the  bystanders. 

"You  see/'  explained  Jack,  "we've  always  had  a  pudding, 
but  this  year  mother  says  she's  too  poor — and  it  does  seem  as  if 
it  wouldn't  be  Christmas  without  it." 

"Well  your  mother  won't  grudge  threepence,  Fm  sure/' 
returned  the  woman.  "  That's  cheap  enough  for  anyone,  I  should 
think.  So  I'll  pop  it  back  in  the  bag,  and  give  you  threepence 
back  as  welL" 

A  murmur  of  approval  came  from  the  customers — from  all 
excqpt  one,  that  is  to  say,  who  gazed  at  the  child  with  a  pair  of 
keen,  inquiring  eyes,  in  which,  however,  there  was  no  encourage- 
ment. Jack  hesitated  for  a  moment,  and  then  shook  his  head 
resolutely. 

"  No,"  he  said,  sturdily.  "  I've  no  more  right  to  spend  three- 
pence of  mother's  money  than  sixpence.  One's  no  more  honest 
than  t'other.  So  if  you  will  give  me  the  money  back  now  'm, 
I'll  go." 

"  Oh,  just  as  you  like !  "  returned  the  shopwoman,  with  a  short 
laugh,  as  she  -emptied  the  rejected  dainty  on  to  the  dish  again, 
*nd  tossed  Jack  a  sixpence  with  a  contemptuous  air.  "You'd 
better  know  your  own  mind  another  time — that's  all ! " 

As  Jack  turned  to  leave  the  shop,  the  customer  before  mentioned 
'(who,  be  it  known,  was  a  Catholic  priest),  patted  him  approvingly 
•on  the  shoulder,  and  said  : 

"  "Well  done,  my  little  man — you  won't  regret  this." 

Little  Jack  looked  up,  meeting  the  kind  eyes  with  a  thrill  of 
.gratitude.    Here  was  someone  who  appreciated  his  struggle. 

"  No,  Father ;  thank  you  Father,"  he  said,  noting  his  new 
friend's  dress. 

Father  Browning  smiled,  well  pleased  that  this  little  hero 
was,  as  his  answer  denoted,  one  with  him  in  faith. 

"  Now,  run  home  and  tell  your  mother  all  about  it,"  he  said, 
kindly.  "Make  a  clean  breast  of  it,  and,  take  my  word  for  it, 
she'll  think  you  all  the  more  worthy  of  her  trust — I'll  come  and 
see  you  soon,"  he  added,  and  then  he  asked  Jack's  name  and 
address,  both  of  which  he  wrote  down  in  a  little  pocket-book. 

Now  perhaps  you  may  think  that  Father  Browning  immediately 

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662  JLiftle  Jack  and  the  Christmas  Pudding. 

rewarded  Jack  by  presenting  him  with  that  much  longed-for  six- 
pennyworth  of  pudding  P  Not  a  bit  of  it ;  though  I  must  own 
that  his  hand  went  backwards  and  forwards  towards  his  pocket 
several  times,  and  he  eyen  made  a  step  forward,  as  the  small; 
square-shouldered  figure  trotted  out  of  the  shop. 

"  No/9  he  said  to  himself,  "  I  mustn't  spoil  the  little  f ellow^s 
sacrifice  by  doing  away  with  the  merit  of  it  before  it's  half 
accomplished.  He  has  got  to  tell  his  mother  yet.  Besides,  six- 
pence is  sixpence,"  he  added,  unconsciously  repeating  Jack's  senti- 
ment of  a  little  while  ago,  "  and  there  are  worse  misfortunes  in 
the  world  than  being  deprived  of  a  slice  of  pudding !  " 

Then  he  sighed,  as  he  remembered  certain  scenes  which  he  had 
witnessed  on  his  round  of  visits  that  morning.  Booms,  compared 
with  the  poverty  of  which  Jack's  abode  was  a  palace — haggard 
men,  sitting  broken-hearted  by  fireless  hearths,  meeting  his  oft- 
repeated  question,  "Got  anything  to  do  yetP"  with  the  same 
dreary  answer  "  No,  Father."  Poor  mothers,  weeping  as  their 
children  wasted  away  before  their  eyes,  for  lack  of  food — and  then 
the  children  themselves !  Oh !  the  poor  little  wan  faces,  so  pinched 
with  hunger  and  cold — the  thin  limbs,  half  covered  only  with, 
their  wretched  rags  of  clothing — the  plaintive  voices  ever  lifted 
in  the  same  weak,  pitiful  cry :  "  I'm  hungry,  Father !  "  (Oh  I 
children,  you  who  read  this,  and  who  have  never  known  in  your 
lives  what  it  was  to  want  for  anything,  think,  in  the  midst  of 
your  Christmas  rejoicings,  of  these — Christ's  little  ones  like  you. 
— to  whom  He  has  seen  fit  to  deny  everything,  and  try  to 
render  their  misery  a  little  less  acute  at  this  time,  when  all 
breathes  joy  and  peace.)  Father  Browning's  parish  was  in  th* 
poorest  quarter  of  the  great  busy  town,  and  every  penny  he 
could  spare  from  his  scanty  store  went  to  relieve  the  wretched- 
ness around  him.  As  he  thought  of  all  this,  therefore,  his  hand 
came  away  from  his  pocket  altogether,  and  he  steeled  his  heart 
against  Jack  and  his  woes. 


III. 


It  was  Christmas  Day,  bright  and  frosty  as  a  Christmas  Day 
ought  to  be,  and  if  the  cold  air  nipped  people's  faces  and  made 
their  noses  redder  than  was  becoming,  they  knew  better  than  to 
complain  of  such  seasonable  weather.    The  church  bells,  that  had 


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Little  Jack  and  the  Christmas  Pudding.  663 

made  the  air  quiver  all  the  morning  with  their  jangling  sound, 
were  quiet  now ;  even  the  streets  were  comparatively  still ;  for  it 
was  one  o'clock,  and  nearly  everyone  was  discussing  their  mid- 
day meal.  * 

In  a  wide,  solemn-looking  street  was  a  certain  spacious  house, 
in  the  cosy  dining-room  of  which  a  happy  party  of  children  were 
seated  at  dinner.  The  parents  were  there  of  course,  laughing 
and  joking  with  their  little  ones,  and  at  the  end  of  the  table,  dis- 
pensing plentiful  helpings  of  a  splendid  sirloin  of  beef,  was  Father 
Browning.  He  and  the  children's  father  were  old  schoolfellows, 
and  it  was  a  recognisedf act  that,  though  the  priest's  parish  was  far 
enough  removed  from  their  aristocratic  part  of  the  world,  he  was 
bound  to  eat  his  Christmas  dinner  with  them.  He  was  too  busy  to 
visit  them  often  at  other  times  of  the  year,  but  whenever  he  did 
come,  the  young  people's  jubilee  was  extreme.  As  for  him,  though 
he  flattered  himself  that  he  concealed  the  fact  from  them,  he  was 
privately  of  opinion  that  there  were  no  children  anywhere  to  be 
compared  with  the  Bigby  olive-branches. 

All  at  once  the  door  opened,  and  "  Baby  "  came  in.  He  was 
considered  rather  too  young  to  partake  of  the  more  solid  viands, 
and  had  therefore  disposed  of  his  basin  of  soup  in  the  nursery ; 
but  he  was  to  have  his  share  of  the  pudding,  and  evidently 
considered  that  the  time  had  come  for  him  to  look  after  his 
interests. 

Now,  Baby  and  Father  Browning  were  sworn  allies,  and 
always  had  a  great  deal  to  say  to  each  other ;  in  fact,  the  former 
had  generally  so  very  much  to  tell,  that,  his  vocabulary  being 
rather  limited,  and  his  pronunciation  somewhat  indistinct,  his 
friend  had  occasionally  some  difficulty  in  understanding  him. 
Indeed,  once  or  twice  he  had  been  known  to  say  "  yes  "  and  "  no  " 
in  the  wrong  places,  at  which  Baby  was  very  much  hurt,  not  to 
say  insulted — but  these  little  disturbances  were  soon  forgotten, 
and  did  not  interfere  in  the  least  with  their  friendship.  These 
two  had  further  one  exquisite  joke  between  them,  which,  though 
to  outsiders  it  might  not  appear  excruciatingly  funny,  was  to 
them  an  unfailing  source  of  merriment. 

It  was  in  Baby's  mind  now,  as  anyone  could  see,  for,  as  he 
slowly  advanced  into  the  room,  his  little  mouth  was  tightly 
screwed  up,  lest  he  should  laugh  beforehand  and  thus,  as  it  were, 
take  the  edge  off  the  jest. 

"  How  d'ye  do,  Father  Browning  P  "  said  Baby,  extending  his 
dimpled  hand. 


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664  Little  Jade  and  the  Christmas  Pudding. 

"  And  how  are  you,  Baby  P  "  returned  the  priest,  preparing  te 

take  it. 

Then — this  was  the  joke — Baby  quickly  withdrew  his  hand 
and  cocked  up  his  little  fat  leg  instead. 

Well — it  was  not  overpoweringly  funny — was  it  P  Especially 
when  yon  remember  that  this  performance  was  gone  through 
every  time  Father  Browning  came  to  the  house— yet  both  he  and 
Baby  were  immensely  tickled,  and  as  the  little  leg  was  cordially 
shaken,  their  mirth  grew  quite  uproarious.  Peace  was  restored 
after  this,  and  the  young  gentleman  duly  installed  in  his  high 
chair  at  his  mother's  side.  Then  the  plates  were  removed,  fresh 
ones  put  down,  and  there  was  an  expectant  pause. 

"  The  pudding  !  "  said  Bosie,  aside  to  Tom. 

"  Pam-pudding,"  corrected  Baby,  waving  his  spoon  in  antici- 
pation of  the  coming  treat. 

"  It's  going  to  be  a  jolly  one  this  time,"  remarked  Tom,  cheer- 
fully.    "  Cook  said  she  put  in  twice  as  many  raisins  as  last  year." 

"Yes,  and — and  I  stirred  it,"  cried  Baby;  "we  all  stirred 
it " 

"  Do  you  know  how  big  it  is  P  "  inquired  Mary,  confidentially 
of  Father  Browning,  next  whom  she  sat.  "  It's  as  big  as — oh — 
five  times  as  big  as  the  biggest  cannon  ball  you  ever  saw !  " 

A  shade  came  over  the  priest's  face — he  was  thinking  of  little 
Jack.  Again  he  seemed  to  see  the  pathetic  little  figure  turning 
away  from  the  counter — the  longing  look  in  his  blue  eyes.  Again 
he  heard  the  quaver  in  the  voice :  "  'Twouldn't  be  honest ! " 

Then  all  at  once  Father  Browning  found  himself  telling  the 
whole  story, 

The  children  listened,  one  and  all,  with  deep  interest,  which 
was  undiminished  even  when  the  butler  marched  slowly  in  and, 
with  a  mixture  of  pride  and  benevolence,  placed  the  steaming 
plum-pudding  on  the  table. 

It  was  a  noble  pudding — I  must  say  that  for  it  Crowned 
with  holly,  and  ornamented  with  almonds,  while  little  tongues  of 
flickering  blue  light  caressed  its  fat  speckled  sides — altogether  it 
really  was  a  typical  Christmas  pudding. 

There  was  a  long  pause  when  Father  Browning  concluded  his 
tale,  and  the  children  sighed.  It  took  away  the  zest  from  their 
enjoyment  somehow  to  think  of  Jack's  forlorn,  puddingless  con- 
dition. 

"Suppose,"  cried  Bosie,  suddenly,  "as  that  poor  little  boy 
has  no  pudding  we  were  to  give  him  ours?"     Bosie  was  an 


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Little  Jade  and  the  Christmas  Pudding.  665 

impulsive  young  person)  and  she  looked  triumphantly  round  the 
table,  expecting  a  murmur  of  applause.  But  at  first  I  am  obliged 
to  own  that  none  of  the  others  considered  the  suggestion  a  par- 
ticularly happy  one.  They  had  all  "kept  a  corner"  for  the 
pudding,  though  to  be  sure  they  had  done  very  nioely,  everyone 
of  them,  already.  They  had  begun  with  roast  beef,  in  honour  of 
old  England,  and  each  had  further  disposed  of  a  very  fair  share  of 
turkey,  because  everyone  eats  turkey  on  Christmas  Day.  They 
had  likewise  done  justioe  to  the  fried  potatoes  and  bread-sauce, 
•and  other  etceteras  of  the  repast,  and  moreover  intended  to  regale 
themselves  with  oranges  and  dates,  and  other  good  things,  at 
dessert — but  still  they  had  kept  a  corner  for  the  pudding,  and 
were,  in  consequence,  conscious  of  a  slight  feeling  of  irritation  at 
Rosie's  extreme  generosity. 

None  of  them  wished  to  be  outdone  by  her,  however,  so  Tom 
remarked  somewhat  gruffly,  that  he  didn't  mind  if  the  others 
didn't ;  and  then  he  lay  back  in  his  chair,  and  gazed  gloomily  at 
the  table-cloth. 

"  I'm  willing  to  give  up  my  share,"  said  Mary,  magnanimously, 
~"  but  we  must  hear  what  mamma  says — of  course,  it  wouldn't  be 
right  to  do  anything  without  leave." 

"  Oh,  I  consent  most  heartily ! "  said  mamma,  with  a  queer 
little  smile,  at  which  Mary's  face  fell,  for  she  had  half  hoped 
that  the  sacrifice  would  be  forbidden  by  the  higher  authorities. 

The  elders  having  spoken,  the  little  ones  had  no  choice  but  to 
follow  their  example,  which  they  did  with  as  good  a  grace  as 
their  tender  years,  and  love  for  plum-pudding  would  permit  of. 
Then  Father  Browning  looked  round  with  a  beaming  face  (it 
really  was  rather  cruel  of  him,  but  he  seemed  positively  to  enjoy 
teeing  the  children  make  their  sacrifice),  and  said  almost  in  the 
words  he  had  used  to  little  Jack : 

"Well  done,  children — you  won't  regret  this,  you'll  find." 
At  this  remark  they  all  revived  somewhat,  and  began  to  feel 
quite  charmed  with  their  own  self-denial.  Only  little  Mabel 
(whose  head  just  came  over  the  edge  of  the  table),  observed 
casually  that  it  was  a  very  big  pudding,  and  that  she  wondered  if 
the  boy  would  be  able  to  eat  it  all.  Whereupon  there  was  a 
general  outcry  all  round,  and  Tom  remarked  virtuously,  "no, 
Mabel — let's  do  it  well  if  we  do  it  at  all/'  at  which  his  little 
sister  was  completely  crushed,  and  the  rest  of  the  family  felt  pro- 
portionately noble. 


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606  Little  Jack  and  the  Christmas  Pudding. 

"Put  the  padding  on  one  side  for  the  present,"  said  Mr. 
Rigby  to  the  butler,  and  as  the  latter  approached  to  do  his  bidding 
with  a  slightly  disgusted  air,  poor  Baby's  feelings  were  too  many 
for  him,  and  his  anguish  found  vent  in  a  prolonged  roar. 

When  the  volume  of  sound  had  somewhat  subsided,  and 
various  pats  on  the  head,  kisses,  and  dates  had  somewhat  restored 
his  equanimity,  Baby  looked  round,  the  corners  of  his  mouth  still 
drooping,  and  big  tears  trembling  on  his  flaxen  eyelashes. 

"  It  isn't/'  he  explained,  "  that  I  don't  want  the  litten  boy  to 
have  our  pudding.    I  do — but  I c  can't  help  crying  all  the  same  ! '* 

Having  delivered  himself  of  this  sentiment,  he  was  preparing 
to  relapse  into  his  former  lachrymose  state  when  Father  Browning 
created  a  diversion  by  remarking  that  he  thought  a  game  of  snap- 
dragon would  be  very  nice  a  little  later  on — and  on  the  whole,  a 
greater  treat  even  than  plum-pudding,  "  for  of  course,"  he  added, 
"  no  one  ever  heard  of  pudding  and  snap-dragon  too." 

Now,  I  have  written  the  word  pudding  so  often  that  I  am 
rather  tired  of  it,  and  so  I  fear,  my  dear  little  readers,  are  you- 
(Here  I  hope  some  of  you  will  be  polite  enough  to  contradict  me). 
So  I  must  make  haste  and  finish  the  story. 

After  dinner,  at  Mr.  Rigby' s  suggestion,  a  cab  was  called,  and 
Father  Browning,  and  Rosie,  and  Tom,  and  Mary  got  in,  and  the 
pudding  was  handed  in  after  them  on  a  big  dish  (which  Tom 
nursed  affectionately  on  his  lap),  and  they  all  drove  off  to  Jack's, 
home. 

Jack  and  Maggie  were  looking  out  of  the  window  rather 
disconsolately.  They  tried  hard  to  feel  virtuous  too,  but  it  is  not 
so  easy  to  do  so  after  a  bad  dinner  as  after  a  good  one.  Mrs. 
Phillips  sat  by  the  fire,  sad  at  heart ;  for  she  was  grieved  at  her 
children's  disappointment,  and  that  difficult  problem  about  how  to 
make  two  ends  meet  that  were  such  a  long  way  apart,  was  troubling 
her  very  much. 

"  Why,  here's  a  cab  stopping  at  the  door,"  cried  Maggie,  all 
at  once. 

"  Is  there  P — what  for,  I  wonder,"  returned  her  mother,  with, 
a  languid  curiosity. 

"There's  such  a  lot  of  children  getting  out!"  exclaimed1 
Jack,  excitedly,  "  and  a  priest — oh,  I  do  believe  it's  the  same  as. 
spoke  to  me  yesterday !  " 

"And,  oh,  mother!"  screamed  Maggie,  "  they're  carrying  a 
dish— a  big  dish  with  a  white  cloth  over  it." 


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Little  Jack  and  the  Christmas  Pudding.  667" 

"  They  can't  be  coming  to  see  us,  that  is  certain/9  said  Mrs. 
Phillips,  but  she  rose  from  her  chair  all  the  same,  and  listened. 

Tramp,  tramp,  and  patter,  patter,  went  the  big  feet  and  the 
little  ones  up  the  stairs,  and  then  all  at  once  the  whole  party 
burst  into  the  room,  and  Tom  twitching  off  the  cloth  revealed  the 
splendid  pudding  to  the  astonished  gaze  of  the  Phillips  family. 

"  Oh  !  "  said  mother,  faintly.     "  Well  I  never !  " 

u  Oh  !  "  cried  Maggie. 

"OH!"  shouted  Jack. 

•  •  •  • 

Well,  to  make  a  long  story  short,  I  don't  know  which  enjoyed 
the  Christmas  pudding  most — the  poor  little  brother  and  sister 
who  had  never  had  such  a  treat  in  their  lives,  or  the  Eigby  children 
— who  did  without  it.  I  am  quite  sure,  as  they  returned  home,, 
after  receiving  the  blissful  thanks  of  the  whole  family,  and  seeing 
for  themselves  the  extent  of  the  pleasure  they  had  bestowed,  that 
they  felt  happier  than  if  they  had  eaten  any  amount  of  pudding. 

Better  days  were  in  store  for  Mrs.  Phillips  and  her  children 
after  this,  for  Mrs.  Bigby  helped  her  to  procure  employment  suffi- 
cient to  keep  them  in  comfort.  She  was  a  kind  friend  to  them  in 
many  ways,  and  Jack  declared  they  owed  all  their  good  luck  to  her. 
His  mother,  however,  would  not  agree  to  this,  and  always  stoutly 
maintained  that  it  was  Jack's  self-denial  which  had  turned  the 
scale  of  fortune. 


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(    668    > 


NURSERY  RHYMES. 

NO.  EL— SlHG  A  SOMft  OF  SXZFBNOE. 

SING  a  song  of  sixpence, 
A  bag  full  of  rye; 
Four-and-twenty  blackbirds 
Baked  in  a  pie. 

When  the  pie  was  opened, 

The  birds  began  to  sing ; 
And  wasn't  that  a  dainty  dish 

To  lay  before  the  long  f 

The  king  was  in  his  parlour 

Counting  out  his  money; 
The  queen  was  in  the  pantry 

Eating  bread  and  honey ; 

The  maid  was  in  the  garden 

Spreading  out  the  clothes : 
Up  jumps  a  little  bird 

And  snaps  off  her  nose. 


Idem  Latins  Rkdditum. 

Denariorum  sex  cane  canticum, 
Plenum  secalis  concine  eacculum, 
Dum  quatuor  crusto  latentes 
Bisque  decern  morulas  coquuntur. 

Quando  reclusum  cruetum  erat,  elites 
Oospore  cunctsa  carmina  f  undere* 

Nonne  ista  laudandi  saporis 

Esca  f  nit  8tatuenda  regi  P 

Aes  rex  in  aula  dinumerat  suum , 

Regina  cella  mel  cereremque  edit ; 

Pandentis  ancilto  per  hortum 

Lintea,  nasum  avicella  raptat. 


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Nursery  Rhymes.  66* 

Cabhbn  Sex  Dknabiobum. 

Versio  Altera. 
Sex  Denariorum 

Cane  canticum, 
Secalia  oerealU 

Plenum  sacculum: 
Quatuor  et  xiginti 

Nigra  merul® 
In  crusto  robusto . 

Sunt  conditaa. 

Crusto  aperto, 

Coepere  illico 
Aves  hse  suaves 

Gantare  sedulo : 
Nonne  f  uit  ista 

Eaca  delicata, 
Ooena  amoena, 

RegiprseparataP 

Bex  in  aulft  nummos 

Coniputans  sedebat; 
Regina  in  culinft 

Cum  pane  mel  edebat. 
Famula  in  horto 

Lintea  pandebat, 
Cui  naaum  abrasum 

Aviculus  carpebat. 

0. 

NoU.— A  distinguished  scholar,  a  Fellow  of  Magdalen  College,  Oxford,  suspect* 
that  this  legend,  with  its  tragical  conclusion,  had  a  Greek  origin.  He  writes  to  us  aa 
follows ;— M  Hsec  carmina  Graeco  font!  antiquitus  emanasse  suspicor ;  inveni  enim 
rersus  quosdam  Talde  antiquos,  quibus  pars  certe  earundem  rerum,  nisi  fallor,  com- 
memotari  Tidetur.  Judicet  autem  qui  exemplum  corum  infra  soriptum  cum  Latinia 
contuleriL 

'AW'  ore  ty  iroatoi  xat  ibyTvos  c£  epov  eVro, 
duxysv^t  Baffi\eV9  QaXdfiy   ivi  -^pviov  apiOpwv 
igavW  j]  ffao  avacca  fWXW  ^Ofiou  i»fa\oio 

&f>709  K*l  /IfiXi  7^6  KOI  JjfMj*  OvfiQV  «fi»^. 

eipara  #ap<j)ivo\o9  k^vov  vepucaWto*  'cvro* 
\#vff4v  t*  cV  srerajMp  *y»e'iu*#6V  JM  vtipwri  vavrm. 
rj  V  *j>i*Ti  fU^a  Oaufk'  opyiOunf  otpavoO*  vpo 
*e«  y«0eW  votl  Ktjirov  M<r*vro9  t§»  &ap*  iveiTa 
fitvat  ©&£  «»>4<'  *io»  *  ereXciero  povXtf. 

r. 

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(    670    ) 


NEW  BOOKS. 

1.  The  largest  and  most  important  volume  which  has  lately  been 
published  in  Ireland,  is  a  fine  octavo,  containing  "  Addresses  Delivered 
on  Various  Occasions,  by  the  Most  Bey.  Dr.  Walsh,  Archbishop  of 
Dublin"  (Dublin:  M.  H.  Gill  and  Son).  An  interesting  preface  of 
more  than  thirty  pages  describes  the  circumstances  which  preceded 
and  attended  Dr.  Walsh's  appointment  to  the  Archbishopric.  The 
Archbishop's  discourses  are  introduced  by  the  addresses  of  congratu- 
lation from  various  public  bodies  and  institutions,  which  called  them 
iorth.  Dr.  Walsh  made  use  of  these  occasions  to  explain  his  views 
on  Irish  Education  in  its  various  aspects,  and  also  on  other  questions  of 
public  interest ;  and,  as  the  present  pages  have  had  the  benefit  of  His 
'Grace's  revision,  they  form  a  work  of  the  highest  authority  as  an 
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•country's  history.  The  volume  is  completed  by  an  appendix  contain- 
ing His  Grace's  letters  on  various  subjects  of  public  interest.  The 
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Edition  of  the  Ascetic  Works  of  St.  Alphonsus  Inguori  is  to  consist, 
has  just  been  forwarded  to  us  by  Messrs.  Benziger  of  New  York,  SL 
Louis,  and  Cincinnati.  It  is  entitled  "  The  Great  Means  of  Salvation 
And  of  Perfection,*  and  it  comprises  the  Saint's  treatises  on  prayer, 
mental  prayer,  the  exercises  of  a  retreat,  the  choice  of  a  state  of 
life,  and  the  vocation  to  the  religious  state  and  to  the  priest- 
hood. The  editor  of  this  fine  edition— the  Bedemptorist,  Father 
TSugene  Grimm— is  manifestly  applying  to  his  task  great  devotedness 
and  skilful  care,  of  which  one  proof  is  the  perfect  accuracy  with 
which  the  Latin  of  the  numerous  quotations  is  printed  at  the  bottom 
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Eighteen  such  tomes,  and  these  representing  only  one  division  of  the 
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verse  reprinted  from  the  back  volumes  of  The  Irish  Monthly.  They 
are  grouped  together  on  one  of  our  front  advertising  pages,  under 
the  title  of  ".The  Irish  Monthly  Library"  though  of  course  they  do 
not  appear  as  such,  being  produced  by  different  publishers.  The 
volumes  of  verse,  indeed,  are  merely  pressed  into  the  service  of  our 
Magazine;  for  only  a  small  portion  of  these  appeared  in  our  pages. 


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Notes  on  New  Booh.  671 

To  the  prose  volumes  a  thirteenth  is  now  added ;  and  two  more,  which 
will  shortly  appear,  will  raise  the  number  of  our  reprints  to  twenty- 
three.  We  introduce,  thus  leisurely,  the  name  of  this  newest  member 
of  this  series,  because  it  would  be  unbecoming  for  us  to  do  more  than 
name  it — "Augustus  Law,  S.  J.,  Notes  in  Remembrance n  (London: 
Burns  and  Oates).  The  republication  of  this  biographical  sketch 
was  the  last  tribute  paid  by  the  late  Mr.  Towry  Law  to  the  memory 
of  his  beloved  son.  May  they  both  rest  in  peace !  Nothing  could  be 
more  tasteful  than  the  form  in  which  the  little  book  has  been  pro- 
duced. 

4.  The  fifty-sixth  volume  of  the  Quarterly  Series,  which  has 
appeared  for  so  many  years  under  the  editorship  of  the  Bey.  Henry 

-J.  Coleridge,  S. J.,  is  "During  the  Persecution:  Autobiography  of 
Father  John  Gerard,  S. J.,  translated  from  the  original  Latin  by  G 
B.  Kingdon,  Priest  of  the  Society  of  Jesus"  (London :  Burns  and 
Oates).  It  is,  as  Father  Kingdon  says  in  his  preface,  ','  no  pretended 
-autobiography,  no  sham  diary,  dressed  up  by  a  modern  writer  to 
give  a  fancy  picture  of  past  times ;  it  is  the  written  experience  of  an 
actual  participator  in  the  events  described.  In  reading  it,"  adds  the 
translator,  "we  look  three  hundred  years  back  through  a  time- 
telescope,  and  become  actual  witnesses  of  the  sufferings  of  the 
'Catholio  priests  and  gentry  under  Elisabeth  and  James."  The  narra- 
tive is  of  the  highest  interest,  and  it  has  been  translated  with  very 
great  skill  and  care.  Father  Kingdon  has  very  judiciously  broken  up 
the  story  into  forty-one  chapters.  The  printing  and  paper  enable  the 
reader  to  follow  with  still  greater  pleasure  the  succession  of  incidents 
more  strange  than  those  of  a  sensational  novel. 

5.  We  have  much  pleasure  in  announcing  to  our  readers  the  publi- 
cation of  a  very  valuable  contribution  to  the  ecclesiastical  history  of 
Ireland—"  Records  relating  to  the  Dioceses  of  Ardagh  and  Olonmac- 
noise,  by  the  Very  Bev.  Canon  Monahan,  D.D.,  P.P."  (M.  H.  Gill 
and  Son,  1886).  Bew  dioceses  of  Ireland  are  more  worthy  of  being 
written  of  than  the  subject  of  the  "Beoords."  The  Bishops  of  these 
two  Sees  have,  at  all  times,  held  a  prominent  place  in  the  Irish 
Church.  Within  the  limits  of  the  Island  of  Saints  there  is  no  holier 
«pot,  none  more  revered,  than  ancient  Glonmaonoise;  no  finer  example 
of  ancient  Irish  art  than  the  Shrine  of  St.  Manchan — still  holding  his 
blessed  relics.  The  very  reverend  author  has  expended  a  great  deal 
-of  labour  on  this  work.  He  has  gathered  his  materials  from  the  most 
varied  sources,  ancient  and  modern.  Himself  a  native  of  the  Diocese 
of  Ardagh,  who  has  lived  in  different  parts  of  the  diocese  in  the  dose 
intercourse  of  a  priest  with  his  people,  and  who  has  been  stationed  for 
some  years  past  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Glonmaonoise,  he  has  had 
unusually  great  opportunities  of  gathering  up  the  local  traditions,  so 
fondly  cherished  by  the  Irish  people.    We  are  glad  to  see  that  he  has 


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672  Note*  on  New  Books, 

not  confined  himself   within  what  some  might  conceive  to  be,  the- 
strict  limits  of  looal  history.    The  evidence  of  Dr.  O'Higgins  before- 
the  Commission  for  inquiring  into  Education,  in  1826;  Dr.  Conroy's. 
sermon  on  St.  Kieran  of  Oonmaenoise ;  and  his  very  valuable  essay 
on  "Positivism;"  a  long  list  of  bishops  and  priests,  natives  of  these- 
dioceses,  who,  true  to  the  great  missionary  instincts  of  the  Irish  race, 
have  left  their  native  land,  <<  peregrinantes  pro  Christo,"  to  labour  in 
the  vineyard  of  the  Lord  in  distant  countries ;  a  remarkable  letter  of' 
Cardinal  Cullen's  to  Dr.  O'Higgins,  on  the  appointment  of  an  English 
Ambassador  at  the  Court  of   Borne,  to  transact  Irish  ecclesiastical, 
business  there :  these,  one  and  all,  are  of  a  very  great  interest,  and 
add  much  to  the  value  of  the  book.     Of  course,  Oonmacnoise  occupies, 
a  good  part  of  the  book.    This  is  what  we  should  expect.  The  history 
of  its  founder,  of  its  school  famed  all  over  Europe ;  an  account  of  its 
churches  and  crosses  as  they  now  stand—- these  are  given  in  full  detail,, 
supplemented  by  a  beautiful  map,  which   will  supply  a  want  long 
felt,  and  be  a  welcome  boon  to  the  many  visitors  to  that  holy  place.. 
The  volume  contains  nearly  four  hundred  octavo  pages.    It  has  been 
brought  out  in  Messrs.  M.  H.  Gill  and  Son's  best  style.    We  are  glad 
to  see  that  the  list  of  subscribers  is  considerable.    We  hope  and  trust 
that  its  circulation  will  be  extensive,  both  at  home  and  abroad. 

6.  Two  important  works,  for  which  the  month  of  November  was. 
evidently  chosen  as  a  specially  suitable  epoch  for  their  publication, 
reached  us,  as  often  happens  in  such  cases,  "just  in  time  to  be  late  * 
for  a  place  among  our  November  notices;     The  first  of  these  is. 
"Purgatory,  Dogmatic  and  Scholastic:  the  Various  Questions  Con- 
nected with  it,  Considered  and  Proved,"  by  the  Rev.  M.  Canty,  P.P. 
(Dublin :  M.  H.  Gill  and  Son).    Father  Canty,  in  his  preface,  explains, 
how  far  his  treatise  goes  beyond  the  scope  of  Father  Coleridge's 
"  Prisoners  of  the  King/'  Father  Anderdon's  "  Purgatory  Surveyed,"' 
and  other  ascetical  works  on  the  subject.    He  discusses  theologically,, 
but  in  very  clear  and  simple  language,  the  various  questions  connected 
with  the  doctrine  of  Purgatory.     The  devout  faithful,  and  priests 
also,  will  read  with  interest  and  profit  these  solid  pages  which  have 
had  the  advantage  of  being  revised  by  the  recently  consecrated  Bishop 
of  Limerick,  Dr.  O'Dwyer.    We  would  suggest  that  the  chapters 
ought  to  be  differently  arranged,  for  that  title  is  here  in  a  few  instances 
given  to  mere. paragraphs.    This  work  reflects  great  credit  on  the 
priestly  taste  and  literary  industry  of  the  hard-working  pastor  of  a. 
large  rural  parish. 

7.  The  other  work,  which  we  should  have  wished. to  announce  at. 
the  beginning  of  the  Month  of  the  Holy  Souls,  takes  its. name  from, 
them — "  Souls  departed :  being  a  Defence  and  Declaration  of  the 
Catholic  Church's  Doctrine  touching  Purgatory,  and  Prayers  for  the* 
Dead"  (London;  Burns  and  Oates).    This  treatise  was  written  by 


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Nate*  on  New  Books.  67& 

the  famous  Cardinal  Allen,  whom  his  editor  calls  '*  the  Father  of  the 
Gatholio  Church  in  England  after  the  destruction  of  the  ancient 
hierarchy  by  Queen  Elisabeth."  It  was  first  published  in  the  year 
1565,  and  is  now  edited  in  modern  spelling  by  the  Rev.  T.  E.  Bridgett, 
C.SS.R.,  whose  name  is  a  sufficient  guarantee  for  the  thoroughness 
and  perfect  taste  of  the  editing,  which  makes  the  vigorous  old  English 
pleasantly  readable*    The  substanoe  of  the  work  is  admirable. 

8*  An  accident  has  delayed  our  notice  of  an  elegant  little  volume 
of  verse — "  Hymn  to  the  Eternal,  Voices  of  Many  Lands,  and  Other 
Poems,"  by  Kinnersley  Lewis  (London:  Sampson  Low,  Mareton, 
Searle,  and  Bivington).  The  very  choice  of  the  themes  proves  that 
Mr.  Lewis  possesses  refined  feelings,  and,  among  the  rest,  a  generous 
stranger's  appreciation  of  the  cause  of  Ireland.  Several  of  his  pieces 
have  been  set  to  music,  some  of  them  by  the  poet  himself.  The  same 
musical  spirit  pervades  his  stanzas ;  but,  though  tne  thoughts  are 
good,  and  sometimes  lofty,  there  is  wanting  a  certain  tinge  of 
originality. 

9.  «  Simple  Readings  on  Some  of  the  Parables  of  our  Lord  Jesus 
Christ,"  by  G.  G.  G.  (Dublin :  M.  H.  Gill  and  Son),  is  a  very  beautiful 
book,  containing  a  simple,  solid,  and  attractive  explanation  of  the 
chief  parables  of  our  Blessed  Lord,  with  terse  and  sensible  reflections. 
The  style  is  particularly  good.  Altogether,  this  is  an  excellent  little 
book  for  spiritual  reading,  and  even  priests  may  consult  it  with 
profit  and  satisfaction.  We  wish  that  the  author's  name  had  been 
prefixed  in  full  and  not  by  initials  merely. 

10.  "  The  Catholic  Home  Almanac"  (Benziger  Brothers,  New  York, 
St.  Louis,  and  Cincinnati),  is  a  very  meritorious  publication,  giving  for 
a  small  price  all  the  usual  information  furnished  by  almanacs,  and  in 
addition  a  great  number  of  excellent  portraits,  pictures,  stories, 
sketches,  biographies,  and  aneodotes.  The  stories  are  by  Mr. 
Maurioe  Egan,  Miss  Mdine,  Ac. 

11.  Another  American  publication,  full  of  a  variety  of  interesting 
matter,  is  DonahoJs  Magazine,  of  which  the  November  issue  gives  very 
correct  likenesses  of  Sir  Charles  Russell,  M.P.,  and  the  late  Father 
Edward  Murphy,  S J.  Esch  number  of  this  popular  miscellany, 
besides  a  large  and  varied  amount  of  literary  matter,  compressed  into 
small  print,  contains  a  great  deal  of  contemporary  history  of  Irish  and 
Catholic  interest. 

12.  Mr  Wilmottfs  "  Scottish  Reformation,"  has  deservedly  readied 
a  third  edition.  "  Growth  and  Duly  "  is  the  subject  of  a  fine  academical 
oration  by  Dr.  Lancaster  Spalding,  Bishop  of  Peoria,  delivered  recently 
before  the  Notre  Dame  University, 

IS.  "St  Augustine,  Bishop  and  Doctor:  a  Historical  Study 
(Dublin :  M.  H.  Gill  and  Son),  is  *by  a  Priest  of  the  Congregation 
of  the  Mission,  a  Pilgrim  to  Hippo,"  who,  during  a  residence  of  two 

Vol.  xrr.  No.  102.  *• 

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4t?4r  Ifbies  onlfew  Books. 

^ears  at  Algiers,  in  quest  of  health,  made  himself  acquainted  with 
the  scenes  of  St.  Augustine's  life,  and  found  that  this  local  knowledge 
threw  a  new  light  on  the  Saint's  writings.  Studying  his  writings  and 
life  anew  from  this  point  of  view,  he  has  here  told  the  Story  of  the 
Bishop  of  Hippo  over  again  with  much  freshness  and  originality, 
weaving  with  the  narrative  an  analysis  of  most  of  the  works  of  this 
wonderful  Doctor  of  the  Church.  A  very  dear  little  map  helps  us  to 
follow  the  saint  from  place  to  place.  It  is  an  unusual  fault,  but  the 
paper  seems  almost  too  thick,  and  the  type  almost  too  large.  This 
work  is  another  contribution  from  the  Irish  Vincentian  Fathers  who 
have  lately  done  good  service  to  our  ecclesiastical  literature. 

14.  We  announced  last  month  the  publication,  in  the  form  of  a  one 
volume  novel,  of  "  Marcella  Grace,"  by  Miss  Rosa  Mulholland  (London : 
Kegan  Paul,  Trench  and  Company).  There  was  more  of  the  poetical 
and  romantic  element  in  "The  Wicked  Woods  of  Tobereevil,"  and  in 
the  idyllic  tale  of  "  The  Wild  Birds  of  Killeevy ; »  but  this  story  of 
Ireland  of  our  own  passing  day  deals  with  the  actualities  of  life,  and 
appeals  more  surely  to  the  sympathies  of  the  mass  of  readers.  Already 
it  has  attracted  the  admiration  of  critics  who  are  accustomed  to  look 
sternly  on  those  who,  even  in  fiction,  treat  of  Irish  affairs  in  a  spirit 
different  from  their  own.  It  will  be  instructive  to  hear  what  The 
Saturday  Review  thinks  of  "  Marcella  Grace  " : — 

Miss  Rosa  Mulholland's  Irish  story  deserres  attention  on  every  ground,  short  of 
being  a  work  of  genius,  on  which  a  modern  fiction  can  claim  attention.  It  deals  with 
Irish  politics — in  themselves  not  exactly  an  inviting  topic,  since  there  is  enough  of 
them  and  to  spare  elsewhere.  But  politics  are  kept  where  they  should  be  in  any  novel 
except  one  avowedly  political.  They  form  a  background  and  give  a  meaning  to  action. 
Bryan  Kilmorey's  Nationalism  and  Marcella  Grace's  sympathy  with  the  woes  of  Irish 
tenants  are  subordinated  to  the  drama  of  their  individual  lives.  The  story  is  essentially 
one  of  passion  and  tenderness.  Laid  in  Ireland  or  laid  in  Siberia,  the  simple  earnest- 
ness, the  pure  fervour  of  Marcella's  love,  the  devotion  of  her  life,  the  anguish  and 
rapture  of  her  suffering,  would  have  sufficed  to  make  her  story  a  powerful  and  affect- 
ing one.  Miss  Mulholland's  style  of  narration  is  the  simplest  that  can  escape  the 
aspect  of  baldness.  But  of  its  ability  to  touch  the  imagination  and  awaken  sympathy 
there  is  no  doubt  Bryan  Kilmorey  is  an  Irishman  of  a  type  better  known  in  his  own 
country  than  in  novels.  Grave  almost  to  austerity,  ardent  under  a  manner  of  reserve, 
and  with  a  tone  of  melancholy  half  natural,  half  acquired  from  national  prepossession, 
he  represents  with  more  truth  than  we  generally  find  in  fiction  the  better  type  of  the 
modern  political  Irishman.  Marcella  is  in  her  way  as  good  a  portrait  of  national 
characteristics.  Both  possess,  underlying  the  troubles  of  their  fate  and  circumstance, 
boundless  capacities  for  happiness  and  for  every  natural  human  enjoyment.  The 
author  brings  them  through  much  misery,  arising  in  a  natural  way  from  the  agitation 
and  disturbance  of  their  troubled  country,  but  leaves  them,  we  are  glad  to  say,  at  the 
close  with  every  prospect  of  happiness. .  Writing  from  the  point  of  view  of  a 
•Nationalist  and  a  Boman .  Catholic,  Miss  Mulholland's  incidental  pictures  of  the 
peasantry,  their  relations  with  the  landlord,  and  their  embroilments  with  secret 
societies,  are  presented  with  remarkable  and  original  interest.  Every  line  of  observa- 
tion comes  evidently  direct  from  the  author's  personal  experience,  and  it  conies  devoid 


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Notes  on  New  Boofe*  675 

of  ranoour  or  prejudice.  8h*  sympathise  strongly  with  the  suffering  of  the  peasantry. 
The  book  is  one  which  in  it*  unpretending  way  helps  to  explain  some  things  not  eeey 
to  understand  in  this  better-managed  land.  Any  one  who  knows  Ireland  must  recognise 
the  faithfulness  of  the  drawing  of  the  physical  as  well  as  of  the  human  element  in  it 
There  is  no  attempt  at  u  word-painting,"  but  the  occasional  descriptions  of  scenery, 
of  the  melancholy  stretches  of  bog  and  moorland,  of  the  romantic  glens  and  lakes 
and  wild  sea-coast  ant  beautiful  in  their  dear  and  vivid  touches.  Some  of  the  scenes 
are  highly  dramatic  and  would  be  rery  effective  on  the  stage.  There  is  no  foreed 
introduction  of  the  pathetic  sentiment  into  the  glimpses  of  nature  surrounding  the 
actors,  but  it  is  very  powerfully  present.  The  story  is  a  remarkable  one,  and  will 
much  enhance  the  reputation  of  the  writer.  The  simplicity  and  sincerity  of  intention 
patent  in  every  word  and  the  absence  of  literary  artifice,  leave  an  impression  of  clear* 
cut  definiteness  of  line  whioh  is  unusual. 

The  same  fastidious  journal  says  of  the  same  writer's  "  Late  Miss 
Hollingf  ord  "  (Blackie  and  Son) :  "  Delicate  and  penetrative  is  the  art 
with  which  the  old  lady  in  this  charming  story  repeats  to  her  young 
audience  the  romantic  circumstances  of  her  first  love,  her  hopes,  and 
fears,  and  jealousy.  The  pictures  possess  a  curiously  magnetic  quality, 
and  are  not  easily  effaced  "  Of  the  same  exquisite  tale  The  Aberdeen 
Journal  says,  "  A  story  nearer  f aultlessness  we  have  never  read.  Its 
literary  style  resembles  the  tracery  of  hoar-frost,  and  there  are 
sentences  in  it  here  and  there  of  Shakespearian  reach." 

15  Miss  Anna  T.  Sadlier  has  gathered  into  a  very  pretty  little 
book,  "  Gems  of  Catholic  Thought :  Sayings  of  eminent  Catholic 
Authors"  (New  York:  Catholic  Publication  Society).  Amongst  the 
writers  quoted,  this  magazine  is  represented  by  no  fewer  than 
twenty-five  of  its  contributors.  This  compliment  must  not  prevent  us 
from  expressing  a  hope  that  many  improvements  may  be  made  in  a 
new  edition.  Such  a  selection  requires  immense  care  to  approach 
anything  like  perfection.  The  number  of  thoughts  is  953,  and,  even 
if  the  full  thousand  had  to  be  filled  up,  there  would  be  no  need  to  press 
into  the  service  sundry  platitudes  which  really  have  no  right  to  be 
here*  No.  690  is,  as  it  stands  here,  a  very  meaningless  sample  of  such 
a  clever  man  as  John  Boyle  O'Reilly.  Is  "  odorous  jam  "  a  misprint, 
as  the  "  new  glass  window"  of  the  last  thought  of  all  certainly  is  ? 
I  am  sorry  to  say  that  our  sweet  poet,  Thomas  Irwin,  is  only  by  mis- 
take placed  among  Catholic  writers.  The  index  at  the  end  prints 
the  word  "page"  fourteen  times;  and  many  readers  after  one 
or  two  vain  attempts  to  find  out  a  thought  will  give  up  in  despair  with- 
out discovering  that  the  numbers  in  reality  do  not  refer  to  pages  but 
to  thoughts.  But,  indeed,  the  excessively  clumsy  use  of  Roman 
numerals  through  the  book,  instead  of  ordinary  plain  Arabic  figures, 
carried  on  through  all  the  hundreds,  is  enough  to  baffle  the  research 
of  the  majority  of  readers.  We  hope  to  see  these  matters  of  detail* 
which,  in  reality,  are  very  important  in  a  selection  of  this  nature,  set 
right  in  a  new  edition  before  long. 

16.  "An  Old  Friend  of  the  Deaf  and    Dumb'9  has  published 

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676  Notes  on  Jfew  Books. 

through  James  Duffy  and  Sons,  "  Observation*  on  the  Oral  System  of 
Educating  the  Deaf  and  Dumb,"  whioh  he  seems  to  us  to  prove  really 
inferior  to  the  older  sign-system.  The  writer's  earnest  zeal  is  veiy 
edifying,  and  his  pamphlet  will  be  read  with  interest  even  by  persons 
not  practically  ooncerned  with  the  question. 

17.  The  Catholic  Truth  Society  is  pursuing  its  task  with  great 
energy.  Several  of  the  more  useful  tracts  published  by  it  are  now 
given  together  in  a  more  convenient  form  as  a  bound  volume;  and 
others  are  grouped  into  a  separate  volume  under  the  title  of  "  The 

„  Church  of  Old  England."  Three  new  biographical  sketches  are  issued, 
price  one  penny  each — "Don  Bosco,"  by  Mrs.  Raymond  Barker ; 
"  St.  Bede,"  by  the  recently  deceased  Bishop  of  Hexham,  Dr.  Bewick ; 
and  "  Queen  Mary/'  by  Mr.  G.  Ambrose  Lee.  These  penny  tracts  are 
extremely  well  done. 

18.  "  For  the  Old  Land  "  (Dublin :  M.  H.  Gill  &  Son),  was  the  last 
work  of  Charles  Kickham,  and  his  most  intimate  friend  has  told  us 
that  his  heart  was  set  upon  it  more  than  upon  "  Knocknagow,"  or  any 
other  of  his  writings.  His  knowledge  and  love  of  the  Irish  character 
in  many  different  phases  are  shown  in  every  page,  and  fun  and  pathos 
are  very  skilfully  and  naturally  intermingled.  Happily  there  are  none 
of  the  villains  that  some  so-called  Irish  novels  represent  as  quite 
plentiful  among  us.  The  form  in  which  the  story  is  brought  out  ought 
to  help  its  popularity.  For  two  shillings  is  given  more  than  the  bulk 
of  a  three-volume  novel,  with  spirited  full-page  illustrations,  by 
Mr.  Fergus  O'Hea,  scattered  prodigally  through  the  ample  pages. 

19.  The  ninth  volume  of  the  library  of  Religious  Biography,  edited 
by  Mr.  Edward  Healy  Thompson,  is  die  life  of  John  Baptist  Muard,  a 
holy  French  Priest,  of  the  first  half  of  this  century,  the  Founder 
of  a  Congregation  of  Benedictine  Preachers.  The  work  is  compiled 
with  great  care,  and  is  full  of  interest  and  instruction.  The  minute 
analysis  of  each  of  the  thirty-three  chapters  in  the  table  of  contents, 
shows  what  a  superabundance  of  edifying  details  has  been  crushed  into 
these  compactly  printed  pages.  Even  the  careless  reader  will  not  need 
Mr.  Thompson's  reminder  that  all  the  volumes  of  this  series  are  original 
works.  Even  the  most  competent  translator  could  not  make  the  story 
run  so  naturally  and  so  pleasingly.  The  publishers,  Messrs.  Burns  and 
Oates,  have  presented  in  a  very  suitable  garb  this  Life  of  a  devoted 
servant  of  God. 


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EDEN. 

MT  love,  but  she  ia  fair! 
Laughs  the  sunshine  in  her  eyes : 
With  a  smile  she  charmeth  Care, 

If  she  sighs,  even  Envy  dies. 
Eve,  ere  sin  and  sorrow  came, 

Raised  to  Heaven  no  sweeter  face ; 
Yet  her  heart  my  heart  would  claim — 

She  so  blest  and  I  so  base! 
0  my  love,  but  she  is  pure  I 

Children  read  the  simple  mind 
Which,  despising  fortune's  lure, 

Ne'er  youth's  Eden  hath  resigned. 
Ay,  and  to  relieve  distress 

She  would  coin  her  heart  in  gold 
Could  I  form  her  happiness — 

I,  so  thoughtless,  fallen,  and  cold  P 
Yet,  I  love  her !  with  a  love 

That  will  ne'er  admit  despair : 
Truth  unsullied  from  above 

Is  the  only  gift  I  bear. 
How  in  looks  and  thoughts  accord 

Such  as  dwell  together  long  ! 
So,  my  soul,  before  the  lord 

Grow  with  hers  more  pure  and  strong. 

E.  E.  T. 


BITTERNESS. 

BITTER  it  ia  to  weep  some  sweet  hope  slain, 
Some  fair  thought  lost,  some  mighty  aim  downcast, 
To  think  on  lips  where  love  hath  kissed  his  last, 
And  faces  we  may  never  see  again— 
To  yearn  with  blinding  tears  of  helpless  pain 
For  but  one  word,  one  hand-clasp,  holding  fast 
The  beauty  and  the  glory  of  the  past! 
Yet  weep,  and  think,  and  yearn,  and  dream  in  vain-. 
Who  counts  this  bitter,  knows  not  bitterness! 
The  bitterest  tears  are  shed  but  in  the  soul, 
Are  drops  of  ruddy  blood  from  a  broken  heart 
Self-slain  by  sin,  having  chosen  the  baser  part, 
And  seeing  too  late  it  hath  missed  both  God  and  goal— 
TkU  bitterness  nor  eyes  nor  lips  express  I 

Eyklyn  Pynb. 


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THE  HOSPITAL  OF  OUR  MOTHER  OP  MERCY. 

ONE  never  knows  how  nmch  of  the  merit  of  a  translated  poem 
belongs  to  the  original  when  the  translator  is  Clarence 
Mangan.  He  and  Karl  Simrock,  between  them,  have  bequeathed 
to  us  a  striking  poem,  of  which  the  strength  lies  chiefly  in  the 
refrain,  "  O  Mary,  Queen  of  Mercy !  "  But  there  is  a  grander 
title  than  "queen;"  there  is  the  name  of  "mother."  The 
Blessed  Virgin  is  not  only  Queen  of  Mercy  but  Mother  of  Mercy. 
This  is  the  name  with  which  Father  Faber  begins  what  his  great 
brother  Oratorian,  Cardinal  Newman,  considers  the  highest  effort 
of  his  pious  muse  :— 

Mother  of  Mercy  1  day  by  day 

My  love  of  Thee  grows  more  and  more ; 
Thy  gifts  are  strewn  upon  my  way 
Like  sands  upon  the  great  seashore. 

When  the  Sisters  of  Mercy  in  Dublin  set  themselves  to  create  a 
great  Hospital  for  the  Sick,  they  could  not  have  chosen  a  more 
suitable  patroness  than  our  Blessed  Lady,  under  the  title  of 
Mother  of  Mercy.  Hence  the  Mater  MiserieordisB  Hospital, 
which,  apart  from  temples  directly  consecrated  to  the  worship  of 
God,  has  claims  to  take  high  rank  among  the  most  splendid 
trophies  of  pious  munificence  in  the  present  generation,  certainly 
in  these  countries  and  probably  in  any  part  of  the  world.  This 
is  especially  true  since  the  completion  of  the  western  wing  of 
the  hospital.  Besides  the  accommodation  for  patients,  which  is 
thus  raised  to  the  number  of  three  hundred  beds,  these  additional 
buildings  supply  the  Sisters  of  Mercy  with  suitable  cells  and 
community  rooms ;  for,  though  hard  to  believe,  it  is  too  true  that 
during  so  many  years  the  Sisters  in  oharge  of  this  magnificent 
hospital  have  had  for  their  own  share  of  it  a  corner  so  miserably 
inadequate,  and  so  badly  situated,  as  to  affect  seriously  the  health 
of  many  amongst  them.  Still  more  consoling  for  them  is  the 
erection  of  the  new  chapel  which  at  least  is  worthy  of  so  noble  an 
edifice.  The  altar  is  rich  with  the  simple  purity  of  white  marble, 
and  all  the  appliances  and  decorations  of  the  holy  place  are,  or 
will  be,  in  keeping.  This,  we  believe,  is  the  gift  of  a  Catholic 
lady,  who  only  stipulated  that  the  chapel  should  be  dedicated  to 
the  Sacred  Heart. 

Those  who  envy  the  happiness  of  one  who  is  able  to  make 

such  an  offering  to  God,  through  his  devout  handmaidens  and  his 

uffering  poor,  ought  to  rejoice  to  learn  that  an  opportunity  is 

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The  SouN  Offering.  679 

immediately  offered  to  them  of  co-operating  in  the  completion  of 
this  great  work  of  Christian  zeal,  by  contributing  in  some  degree, 
however  slight,   to  the  full  success  of  the  bazaar,   which,    as 
innumerable  green  placards  inform  the  citizens  of  Dublin,  "  will 
be  held  in  the  Rotundo,  Dublin,  on  Tuesday  and  Wednesday, 
the  14th  and  15th  of  December,  1886,  in  aid  of  the  fund  for 
the  completion  of  the  Mater  Misericordiee  Hospital,   in  which 
three   thousand  patients   of    every    denomination    are  received 
-annually/'     This  last  item  is  quoted  as  more  attractive  for  our 
benevolent  readers  than  the  thousands  of  prizes,  some  of  them 
very  valuable,  which  will  be  competed  for  on  the  octave  day  of 
the  Feast  of  the  Immaculate  Conception,  under  the  presidency 
of  the  Lord  Mayor  and  the  High   Sheriff  of  our  beautiful  old 
<3atholic  metropolis.     When  a  certain  colossal  brewery  was  lately 
split  up  into  shares,  many  applied  in  vain  for  a  small  allotment 
thereof,  and  had  their  money  returned  to  them.      This  other 
much  better  investment  is  open  to  all,  and  there  is  no  fear  that 
any  applicant  for  shares  will  be  disappointed.     It  is  a  grace  and 
a  happiness  to  be  allowed  to  have  a  part,  even  in  this  easy  and 
unobtrusive  way,  in  the  perfect  completion  of   that  palace   of 
Christian  charity  which  stands  over  against  St.  Joseph's  newest 
and  not  least  beautiful  Church,  and  which  is  known  over  the 
-Catholic  world  as  the  Mater  Misericordise  Hospital. 


THE  SOUL'S  OFFERING. 

I  COME  to  Thee,  my  Lord ! 
Weary  and  heavy  laden,  sick  and  poor, 
Yet  in  my  sickness  and  sore  grief  fall  sure. 

That  Thine  all  pitying  heart 
The  creature  Thou  hast  made  wilt  not  despise, 
Nor  shut  Thine  ears  against  her  feeble  cries, 

Nor  bid  her  to  depart. 
For  Thou  wert  ever  merciful  and  good 
To  all  who  wore  the  form  of  womanhood, 

And  with  kind  words  and  sweet 
Permitted  woman  to  draw,  near  to  Thee, 
And  cast  the  burden  of  her  misery 

Down  at  Thy  sacred  feet. 
And  in  thy  wanderings  to  follow  Thee 
And  stand  beside  Thy  cross  on  woful  Gal  vary* 


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680  The  &mU  Offering, 

I  come  to  Thee,  my  Lord ! 
With  tearful  eyes  aod  braised  and  bleeding  feet, 
Torn  by  the  world's  hard  ways  and  stony  street, 

Its  desert  bleak  and  bare ; 
Sore  wounded,  and  in  bitter  misery 
And  heavy  laden*    Save  alone  to  Thee 

Can  I  go  anywhere  ? 
Whene'er  I  turn  from  Thee,  I  lose  the  light 
That  guided  me  before  through  darkest  night, 

And  vainly  do  I  grope 
Through  the  dark  road  of  sinfulness  and  wrong. 
Stumbling  and  falling  as  I  go  along, 

Bereft  of  heart  and  hope. 
Oh!  lead  me,  Lord,  unto  Thy  feet  anew, 
The  feet  that  once  for  me  were  tired  and  bleeding  too. 

I  come  to  Thee,  my  Lord ! 
An  idle  servant,  and  with  empty  hands. 
The  Prodigal  from  distant  foreign  lands 

Where  all  my  store  was  spent* 
Nothing  have  I  to  say,  but  silent  wait 
Before  the  pillars  of  Thy  mercy-gate, 

With  drooping  head  and  bent* 
Until  the  time  when  Thou  wilt  travel  by, 
And*  seeing  all  my  lowness,  cast  Tbibe  eye, 

On  one  so  worn  and  weak, 
One  who  has  not  the  wedding  garment  on, 
And  lost  the  light  that  once  upon  her  shone, 

And  who  can  nothing  speak 
Save  that  one  cry  approved  of  old  by  Thee: 
"  I  am  a  sinner,  Lord !  be  merciful  to  me." 

I  come  to  Thee*  my  Lord ! 

And  yet  I  have  no  offering  to  bring 

Such  as  may  pleasure  Thee,  O  thorn-crowned  King ! 
Nought  save  myself  alone, 

And  the  tired  heart  that  wandered  aimlessly, 

Seeking  for  joy  upon  the  world's  wild  sea, 
For  peace,  yet  finding  none. 

Wilt  Thou  accept  the  worthless  offering  ? 

Alas !  dear  Lord,  'tis  all  I  have  to  bring- 
How  poor,  and  yet  my  all ! 

And,  knowing  this,  Thou  wilt  not  turn  away 

But  bend  Thine  ears  to  listen  when  I  pray, 
And  on  Thy  name  I  call. 

Gather  Thou  up  once  more  life's  broken  strands, 

And  bless  Thy  child  Once  more  with  thy  dear  wounded  hands. 


CFP  1   A   1Q18     M-  w-  Brew. 


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